Chapter 15 - The Loading Bay Ambush
My boots finally struck the solid concrete floor of the underground shipping and receiving bay with a quiet thud. The vast, cavernous room was entirely deserted—except for a single unmarked black federal van idling quietly near the exit ramp, its headlights dimmed.
A wave of intense relief washed over me. Reeves’ backup unit.
I began running toward the vehicle, my arms aching from the weight of carrying my child through the dark labyrinth. But as I drew closer to the idling van, my instincts—honed by years of building a high-stakes tech empire where paranoia was a survival trait—flashed a violent warning signal.
The van’s license plate was missing. And the driver sitting behind the steering wheel wasn't wearing a federal tactical vest; he was wearing a heavy leather jacket with the distinct silver insignia of the Meridian Syndicate stitched onto the sleeve.
I froze mid-stride, pressing my back hard against a towering stack of industrial laundry bins just as the passenger door of the van swung open smoothly.
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“Come out, Ms. Morgan,” a smooth, cold voice echoed across the empty loading bay, amplified slightly by the concrete acoustics. “You can run through the hospital rabbit holes all night, but Viktor Vance owns every street exit in Manhattan.”
A tall man stepped out from the shadows beside the van, holding a suppressed pistol lazily at his side, scanning the empty corners of the shipping dock with dead, predatory eyes.
