Chapter 15 - The Trap on Whispering Ridge
By dawn, the coastal fog had burned away under a raw, yellow sun.
Two local sheriff's cruisers sat parked along Whisper Creek Drive, their emergency lights flashing soundlessly against the cliffs.
A plainclothes investigator stood by the front terrace, taking photos of the shattered sliding glass.
Jack Miller stood with his arms crossed, watching the forensic tech bag the courier’s dropped sidearm.
"The prints came back clean," Maya said, walking back from the perimeter tree line.
"No records in California databases. These were foreign operators on private contracts."
"Vanessa didn't organize this," Jack said, his gaze fixed on the canyon road below.
"She doesn't know tactical spacing or breaching charges. She was Marcus's trophy, not a combat coordinator."
"Then why did the shooter name her?"
"Because she's the bait," Jack said.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
The screen showed an unknown caller with a 310 area code.
Jack swiped to accept and brought the phone to his ear without speaking.
"Jack?"
It was Vanessa.
Her voice wasn't the polished, dripping-with-scorn tone she had used on the night of the anniversary party.
She was hyperventilating, her words swallowed by the roar of high-speed wind.
"Jack, please... listen to me," she sobbed.
"Marcus told them I had the secondary drive. They picked me up from the safehouse."
"Where are you, Vanessa?" Jack asked, keeping his voice colder than ice.
"I'm in the canyon... the abandoned quarry off Mile Marker 14."
"They're going to push the car over the edge, Jack! They said if you don't bring the drives in twenty minutes, they're letting go of the winch!"
A man's voice cut in, harsh and accented.
"Twenty minutes, Captain. Come alone. Leave the woman with the gun at the house."
The line went dead.
Maya stepped close, reading Jack’s face instantly. "Quarry?"
"Quarry," Jack nodded.
"It's an obvious kill box, Jack," Maya said, her hand gripping his forearm.
"High ground on three sides, single access road, zero cover. They'll have a spotter with an anti-material rifle before you hit the gate."
"I know," Jack said.
He walked over to his battered 1978 Ford Bronco parked near the garage.
He popped the rear tailgate and pulled out an olive-drab tactical transit case that hadn't been opened since his medical discharge from Walter Reed.
Inside lay an old thermal spotter scope, two smoke canisters, and a customized bolt-action Remington .300 Win Mag.
"You're not going alone," Maya said firmly.
"You're right," Jack replied, meeting her steady hazel eyes.
"You're taking the ridge trail on foot. You have twelve minutes to get above their sniper."
"And what are you going to do?"
Jack racked the bolt of the rifle, loading a heavy match-grade cartridge into the breach.
May you like
"I'm going to drive right into their front door."
***
