Chapter 5: THE PRICE OF TRUTH
Grant looked different. The polished corporate veneer was gone. His suit was wrinkled, his face pale, his eyes manic. He held a suppressed pistol, aimed directly at Dylan’s chest. “Hello, Emily,” Grant sneered. “You caused me a lot of trouble.”
“You’re out on bail,” Emily said, her voice shaking. “I have very wealthy, very angry friends,” Grant replied. “Friends who are extremely unhappy that their ten million dollars is locked behind a decryption key on that flash drive. Toss it over.” Dylan stepped in front of Emily, shielding her completely. “You’re not walking out of here, Grant.” “I think I am,” Grant laughed. “Because if you don’t hand over the drive, my associates waiting outside your mother’s safehouse are going to make a phone call. Your little biker friends are tough, Cross. But they aren’t bulletproof.”
Emily felt the air leave her lungs. Her mother. “You’re lying,” she gasped. Grant pulled out his phone and tossed it onto a workbench. It was a live video feed. Emily saw the outside of the hotel where Dylan had hidden her mother. Three armed men were walking up the stairwell.
“Hand it over,” Grant demanded. “Or the old woman dies.” Emily looked at the red drive in her hand. This was it. The money. The corruption. The power. If she gave it to him, the syndicate would vanish into the shadows, stronger than ever. But if she didn't, she lost her mother.
Dylan looked back at her. His eyes were intensely calm. He gave her a microscopic nod. Do it.
“Okay!” Emily cried out, stepping out from behind Dylan. “Take it. Just leave her alone.” She tossed the red drive. Grant caught it with a greedy, triumphant smile. “Smart girl. You finally learned your place.” He turned to his men. “Kill them both. Burn the garage.”
Grant turned his back to walk away. That was his final mistake. Because Dylan Cross didn't wait for the men to raise their weapons. He exploded forward. In one fluid, terrifying motion, Dylan disarmed the closest man, breaking his wrist with a sickening crunch. The garage erupted into chaos. Emily dove behind a workbench.
Dylan was a force of nature. Years of military training and street survival unleashed in a confined space. He moved faster than the suited men could track. Two men went down in seconds. The third managed to fire a shot, the bullet grazing Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan didn't even flinch. He drove his elbow into the man’s jaw, knocking him out cold.
Grant turned around in horror. He raised his gun, aiming at Dylan’s back. Emily didn’t think. She didn't ask for permission. She grabbed a heavy steel wrench from the floor and threw it with all her might. It struck Grant squarely in the side of the head. He stumbled, the gun dropping from his hand. Dylan spun around and tackled Grant to the concrete, pinning him down and securing his arms in a vicious lock.
The garage went silent, save for the sound of heavy breathing and rain outside. Emily crawled out from behind the bench. Dylan looked up at her, blood seeping through his jacket. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice rough. “You’re shot,” Emily choked out. “It’s a scratch.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a radio. “Torres. Execute.”
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On the workbench, Grant’s phone screen shifted. The live video feed showed the three armed men in the hotel stairwell suddenly surrounded by ten massive bikers pouring out of the adjacent rooms. The assassins dropped their weapons immediately. Emily let out a sob of relief. Dylan looked down at Grant, who was writhing in pain on the floor. “Did you really think I didn't know you were tracking us, Grant?” Dylan whispered. “I wanted you to follow us here. I wanted you in a room away from your lawyers.”
Dylan picked up the red flash drive from where Grant had dropped it. He tossed it to Emily. “Hold onto that,” he said. “We have some accountants to call.”
