In that single second of blinding clarity, Marcus saw the blood dripping from his own hands, the unconscious men on the floor, and the unyielding, sorrowful resolve in Dana’s eyes.
Marcus dropped to his knees. His hand reached for the gun.
Ramos spat blood, a vicious, triumphant sneer returning to his face. That’s it, kid! Blow her head off!
Marcus gripped the cold steel handle, raised the barrel, and pointed it.
Not at Dana.
He pointed it straight between Ray Ramos’s eyes.
Tell me what you did to my brother, Marcus whispered, his hand shaking with an uncontrollable, terrifying rage. Tell me what my father did to Julian, or I pull this trigger right now!
The smell of ozone and spent gunpowder hung heavy in the air, trapped inside the dark, vaulted cavern of the gymnasium. Lightning strobed through the skylights, casting flickering, skeletal shadows across the polished basketball court.
Marcus Vance stood with his legs wide, the nine-millimeter pistol extended in both hands. The barrel was trembling, not with hesitation, but with a violent, vibrating fury that rattled his teeth. The muzzle was locked dead center on Ray Ramos’s forehead.
Talk, Ramos, Marcus snarled, his voice cracking with an agonizing mixture of grief and betrayal. You’ve worked for my father since I was ten years old. You sat at our Thanksgiving table. You told me Julian died a hero’s death because he made a tactical mistake. Tell me the truth right now, or I swear to God I’ll paint this floor with your brains!
Ramos remained on one knee, his hand clutching his shattered ribs. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his stubbled chin onto the splintered floorboards. Despite the weapon pointed at his skull, a sickening, yellow-toothed grin spread across his face.
You don’t have the stomach for it, Marcus, Ramos wheezed, his breath rattling in his damaged chest. You’re a boy playing dress-up in fight shorts. You beat up frat boys and college kids in a cage with a referee standing by to save your pampered little life. You’ve never pulled a trigger on a living, breathing man. You pull that hammer back, and your life is over.
Marcus’s finger tightened against the trigger shoe. The internal safety clicked off. Try me!
Marcus, lower the weapon.
The command came from behind him. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t panicked. It was the calm, absolute authority of someone who had watched men live and die by the inch.
Dana took two measured steps forward, stopping just at Marcus’s shoulder. She didn’t reach for the gun. She didn’t try to wrest it from his hands. She stood there, watching the pulse hammering in his neck.
He knows, Marcus choked out, refusing to lower his aim. He knows what happened to Julian! My dad… my dad told me Julian was weak. He told me Julian got caught in an ambush because he panicked. He spent three years telling me that Julian shamed our family, and that I had to be harder, meaner, stronger to make up for it!
Dana’s eyes locked onto Ramos, whose mocking grin was beginning to falter under the weight of her predatory stare.
Julian didn’t panic, Dana said softly, her words piercing through Marcus’s spiraling rage. Julian discovered that your father was using international shipping containers through Vance Logistics to broker illegal arms to insurgent networks in the Middle East. High-grade optical scopes, night-vision components, and automatic receivers stolen from National Guard armories right here in Ohio. Julian gathered serial numbers. He took photographs. He went to his commanding officer with the proof.
Marcus shook his head violently, tears finally spilling over his bruised cheeks. No… no, Dad wouldn’t do that. That’s treason. That’s murder.
It’s business, kid, Ramos spat, coughing up another dark clot of blood. His eyes flickered with malicious triumph. He looked directly at Marcus, abandoning any pretense of loyalty. Your brother was a boy scout. A righteous, arrogant little boy scout who thought he could destroy a fifty-million-dollar empire because of his delicate conscience. He sent an encrypted ultimatum to your old man from his base in Bagram. He told Richard to liquidate the network and turn himself in, or he was going to the Department of Justice.
Marcus’s voice dropped to a horrifying whisper. What did my father do?
Ramos chuckled, a wet, repulsive rattle. Your father made a phone call. One single call to a private broker in Dubai. That broker reached out to a local warlord in the Kunar valley. The warlord was given the exact GPS coordinates and route schedule of Julian’s reconnaissance patrol. Your father didn’t just let Julian die, Marcus. He sold the coordinates of his own son’s convoy for four million dollars and a guarantee of silence.
