"FBI and the United States Marshals Service," the dispatcher replied, her voice trembling. "They're claiming a priority federal asset may be detained within Telfair County borders. They've placed an administrative freeze on all local CAD logs and are demanding the immediate GPS coordinates of your unit. Wade, what do you have out there? Headquarters says an inter-agency tactical liaison is requesting your direct line."
Vance’s face drained of color. The polished, aristocratic composure vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by the cornered, feral panic of a criminal who suddenly realizes the net has fallen over his head.
"Turn that damn radio off!" Vance hissed, his hand slamming down on the table, knocking the bourbon glass to the floor where it shattered against the concrete.
Kessler ripped the radio from his shoulder and violently switched the rotary dial to the off position, plunging the room back into heavy silence.
"You said she was just an analyst!" Kessler choked out, his chest heaving, his face slick with sweat. "Hoyt, the feds don't scramble the Marshals for a paper pusher! If they track this cruiser—"
"Shut up and think!" Vance barked, his voice rising in pitch. He stared at me, his eyes wild, the reality of the situation tearing through his carefully orchestrated scheme. "The feds don't have our location. Not yet. GISAC takes twenty minutes to query the cell towers down here in the bottoms. But if she talks... if she ever gets in front of a federal grand jury with an FBI field team behind her, we're done. The land, the contracts, the Senate seat—everything is gone."
"What do we do, Hoyt?" Kessler whispered, his right hand shaking as it hovered over the retention holster of his Glock 21. "What do we do with her?"
Vance didn't hesitate. The last vestige of human calculation stripped away, revealing the raw rot beneath.
"We scrub it," Vance said, his voice cold and vicious. "Both of them. Take her out to the slough behind the transformer pad. Two rounds behind the ear. Dump the body in the swamp cut—the gators will have her stripped by dawn. Then call Bobby at the farm. Tell him to torch the house right now. No witnesses. We claim the old man had cartel connections, his house got hit, and the daughter never made it down from Atlanta."
"Hoyt, that's capital murder—"
"We're already in it, you idiot!" Vance roared, spittle flying from his lips. "You pull that weapon and do it now, or you're spending the rest of your life in a state penitentiary in Reidsville!"
Kessler swallowed hard, his jaw clenching. A desperate, murderous resolve settled over his face. He drew his Glock 21 from the black polymer holster with a sharp, mechanical click.
"Get up," Kessler growled, stepping around the table and lunging forward to grab my jacket. "On your feet, bitch."
He made the mistake of stepping within twelve inches of my center of gravity.
I didn't wait for him to touch me.
With the explosive, trained speed of an operative who had survived hand-to-hand engagements in three continents, I dropped my weight straight down. My bound hands swung upward in a tight, violent arc, driving the steel chain of the handcuffs directly into the soft cartilage of Kessler's nose.
The crunch of breaking bone was loud and wet.
Kessler screamed, blood spraying across the white laminate of the table as his head snapped back. His grip on the pistol slipped, but his finger convulsed on the trigger.
The gunshot was deafening inside the enclosed cinderblock room. The .45-caliber slug tore through the ceiling drywall, showering the room in white dust and shattered insulation.
Before Kessler could recover his balance, I pivoted on my left heel, driving a front kick with the reinforced steel toe of my work boot straight into his right kneecap. The joint gave way with a sickening pop. Kessler collapsed to the concrete floor with a strangled wail, dropping the Glock.
Vance reacted with the panicked survival instinct of a cornered animal. He didn't try to help his deputy. He didn't reach for the fallen weapon.
Vance grabbed his car keys and bolted for the heavy pine door, throwing it open with a violent crash.
"Bobby!" Vance screamed into his cell phone as he crossed the threshold into the dark. "Burn it! Burn the house now! Kill the old man!"
The heavy door slammed shut behind him. A second later, the supercharged V8 engine of the Escalade roared to life outside, tires shredding gravel as the heavy SUV accelerated down the dirt track toward the county highway.
On the floor, Kessler was groaning, his face covered in bright arterial blood, clawing frantically across the concrete to reach the fallen Glock that had slid beneath the edge of the banquet table.
I stepped forward, raised my right boot, and brought the heel down with crushing force onto his wrist, pinning his hand against the floor.
He shrieked in agony as the bones cracked.
"Key," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly, monotone whisper. "Where is the handcuff key, Wade?"
"Pocket..." he sobbed, his eyes rolling back, tears cutting through the red smear on his cheeks. "Left... left duty pocket..."
I leaned down, hooked two fingers into his pocket, retrieved the small black universal key, and had the ratchets unlocked from my wrists in three seconds.
The steel cuffs hit the floor with a clean, sharp clatter.
I picked up the fallen Glock 21, dropped the magazine to verify the fifteen-round stack of federal hollow-points, racked the slide to chamber a fresh round, and engaged the safety.
I looked down at the wall clock above the shattered light fixture.
It was 11:14 PM.
The farm was nine miles away through back roads. Vance had just given the execution order to the hitman watching my father’s house. The FBI was somewhere in the ether, lost in bureaucratic jurisdictional checks sixty miles to the east in Savannah.
There was no cavalry. There was no federal warrant.
I grabbed the keys to Kessler’s patrol cruiser from the table, stepped over his writhing body, and kicked open the door, sprinting out into the suffocating Georgia night.
Chapter 3: Nine Miles to Midnight
The humid night air hit my lungs like hot grease as I cleared the door of the control house.
I took the gravel apron in three long, driving strides, Kessler’s keys jingling in my left hand, the Glock 21 held depressed against my right thigh at low ready. The red tail lights of Vance’s Escalade had already dissolved into the heavy canopy of the logging road, leaving behind only the sulfurous stink of scorched rubber and pulverized limestone.