The Butcher of Oakhaven

Blood on the Loft

The splattered oak door collapsed inward under the force of a heavy tactical boot. Splinters flew across the room, striking the copper surface of the green banker lamp on Gideon Pratt's desk.

I pressed my back against the wall behind the door frame, breathing quietly through my mouth. The headache behind my eyes had receded to a dull throb, but my left eye still stung with every blink. I held the stolen nine millimeter handgun at chest height, two fingers rested against the trigger guard.

"Pratt!" a voice barked from the doorway. "Hands where I can see them!"

Two men in black tactical uniforms surged into the loft, their boots heavy on the floorboards. Both carried short barreled shotguns, their flashlights cutting white ribbons through the dust and salt air.

Pratt threw his hands into the air, stumbling back against his filing cabinets. "Wait! I am alone! What is this?"

"Shut up," the lead guard said, sweeping his light across the desk. It landed on the wet leather ledger and the scattered stacks of cash. "Where is Vance? The driver phone pinged near the pier lane ten minutes ago."

"I have not seen him!" Pratt yelled. "I swear to God, I have been here all night!"

The second guard stepped toward the desk, lowering his light toward the ledger. "He was here. The book is wet."

I did not wait for him to turn toward the door frame.

I stepped out of the shadow, focusing my gaze on the lead guard's neck. A faint red trace of my static vision flickered across my sight, highlighting the carotid artery and the exposed gap between his helmet strap and collar.

I struck forward with the barrel of the handgun, driving the steel sight directly into the soft tissue beneath his jawline.

The man choked, his breath cutting off as his knees buckled. He dropped the shotgun, clutching his throat with both hands as he collapsed sideways onto the oak desk.

The second guard swung his weapon toward me, but the movement was wide and sloppy in the tight space of the loft.

I grabbed the barrel of his shotgun with my left hand, shoving it upward just as he pulled the trigger. The blast tore a massive hole through the ceiling plaster, showering us both in white dust and rotted lath.

Before he could pump the forend for a second shot, I stepped inside his reach. I drove my right knee into his groin, then brought the heavy grip of my pistol down onto the back of his neck.

He hit the floorboards face first and lay still.

The entire engagement took less than four seconds. Dust hung thick in the yellow glow of the green lamp.

Pratt was pressed against the wall, his face gray, his chest heaving as he stared at the two unconscious guards. "They... they were Foundation contractors. Marcus, you just killed your own chance at a clean exit."

"They were sent to clean up the harbor," I said, kicking the dropped shotgun under the desk. "Which means Sterling already knows I came for the ledger."

I grabbed Pratt by his jacket collar and yanked him away from the wall. "Where are the storage keys for Sector Seven?"

Pratt reached into his trousers pocket with shaking hands and pulled out a heavy steel ring holding three brass keys and a blue digital keycard. "The card opens the outer gate at the north yard. The brass key with the double notch fits the secondary lock on the cold storage vault. But I am telling you, Vance, the vault is monitored by a live biometric relay. If you swipe that card without a valid staff ID, the system locks the sector down in twenty seconds."

"Then you are coming with me to punch the code," I said.

"No," Pratt stammered, pulling back. "No way. If Sterling sees me near Sector Seven, my family is dead by morning."

"Sterling already put your ledger in a Foundation hit van, Gideon," I said, picking up the wet ledger from the desk and jamming it into my coat. "If I leave you here, his next team will not ask questions. They will burn this loft to the ground to cover the trail."

Pratt looked down at the two guards on the floor, then out the shattered doorway toward the dark stairs. He knew I was right. In Sterling’s world, a loose thread was always burned.

"My car is parked in the alley behind the fish shed," Pratt muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "A gray sedan. But we cannot take the coastal road. Foundation patrols are watching the main bridges."

"We take the rail spur through the old iron works," I said. "It cuts directly behind the North Docks."

I handed him one of the fallen guards' sidearms. Pratt took it, his fingers trembling against the grip.

We moved down the creaking wooden stairs, leaving the packing shed through the broken back door. The rain was coming down harder now, washing the white plaster dust from my shoulders as we reached the alleyway.

Pratt’s sedan was an old four door model covered in salt rust. He fumbled with the key, unlocked the driver side, and slid inside. I took the passenger seat, keeping the stolen nine millimeter resting on my knee.

"The keycard gets us past the outer gate," Pratt said, starting the engine. The car idle was rough, rattling against the frame. "But the inner perimeter has automated cameras. If they flag your face, the alarms go off."

"They will not flag my face," I said. "I died in Blackwood Pen six years ago. My biometric file was cleared from the civic database when Sterling signed my death certificate."

Pratt glanced at me as he backed the sedan out of the dark alley. "What if he did not clear it, Vance? What if he kept your profile active just in case you ever surfaced?"

I looked out the passenger window at the black waters of the harbor basin. The thought had crossed my mind. Sterling was meticulous. He never threw away leverage, and a dead man's identity was the best leverage in Oakhaven.

"If my name lights up on that board," I said, "we have thirty seconds to clear the vault before the armed response arrives."

Pratt drove in silence through the abandoned rail yard. The rusty tracks ran parallel to our path, disappearing into the heavy fog that hung over the North Docks. Ahead of us, half a mile down the line, the tall floodlights of Sector Seven cut through the darkness, turning the rain into a curtain of harsh white needles.

A high concrete wall topped with razor wire enclosed the facility. At the main transport gate, two gray Foundation security vehicles were parked side by side, their roof lights flashing blue against the wet asphalt.

Pratt slowed the sedan to a crawl fifty yards from the perimeter. "Look at the gate," he whispered. "That is not standard dock security. Those are Sterling's private guards."

I focused my vision through the rain-streaked windshield. A sharp pain flared behind my retinas, but I pushed through it, letting the static overlay take shape.

Three figures stood under the guard shack awning. One was on a satellite phone. The other two were holding heavy military rifles, their posture rigid as they checked every vehicle approaching the access road.

"They are looking for this sedan," I said.

Pratt hit the brakes, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "We turn around. We find another way."

Before he could put the car in reverse, a high powered spotlight snapped on from the watchtower above the gate. The white beam swept across the rail tracks and locked directly onto our windshield, blinding us both in an instant.

A loudspeaker crackled from the tower wall, its metallic voice cutting through the sound of the rain.

"Driver of the gray sedan. Step out of the vehicle with your hands on your head. You have five seconds."