Page 97 of Duty Compromised
I prayed George was hearing this and having his people dump their cell phones, in case this didn’t work.
One of the sellers leaned forward, eager. “This is impressive. Maybe we keep this weapon for ourselves. Now that we’ll have someone to develop other weapons, this one could be our calling card.”
“Please don’t do this,” Charlotte said, but her protest sounded weak, defeated. “Those are innocent people?—”
The seller laughed. “FBI agents are never innocent. They’re tools of the state. And tools can be broken.”
They started laughing and muttering about how they wished they could see the carnage. Would heads be blown all the way off? Sons of bitches.
“Let’s do this and get out of here.” Darcy smiled. “Shall we? On my count.”
I shifted my weight, hand drifting to my pocket where my phone waited. The movement looked casual, nervous energy from a man about to watch dozens of his colleagues die.
“Five,” Darcy began, her voice bright with satisfaction.
I palmed my phone.
“Four.”
Got my grip right, feeling the weight and balance.
“Three.”
Caught Ethan’s eye one more time. He gave the tiniest nod.
“Two.”
I pulled the phone free, arm already in motion.
“One.”
I hurled my phone across the warehouse floor toward the buyers. Before anyone could figure out what was going on, it exploded with enough force to shake dust from the rafters—smaller than a grenade but bigger than a firecracker, the perfect amount of chaos. The sellers and goons instinctively ducked, shielding their faces from debris.
Ethan moved at the same instant I did. Muscle memory took over—disarm the closest threat, acquire a weapon, neutralize, and move. My elbow caught one of Darcy’s goons in the throat as I ripped the pistol from his hand. Ethan had already dropped one seller and was diving for cover as bullets started flying.
The phone’s explosion had done more than expected—something in the old warehouse’s structure caught fire, probably decades of oil and chemicals soaked into the concrete. Smoke began filling the space as orange flames crawled up one wall.
I shielded Charlotte with my body, pulling her behind an overturned table as the rest of the FBI team burst through every entrance at once. Muzzle flashes lit up the smoke like deadly fireworks.
“Stay down,” I told Charlotte, pressing her against the floor as bullets whined overhead.
The firefight was brief but vicious. These weren’t criminals who’d surrender at the first sign of resistance. They fought like what they were—international arms dealers who knew capture meant life in prison or death.
But they were outnumbered, outflanked, and half blind from smoke. One by one, they went down. Some permanently, others screaming as they hit the ground, weapons skittering away across concrete slick with blood.
Through it all, I kept my body between Charlotte and the mayhem, one hand on her back to keep her down, the other gripping a stolen Glock and looking for threats. The fire spread, eating through old wooden supports, turning the air toxic with smoke.
I saw Darcy try to run, heading for a side exit. She made it three steps before Ben materialized from the smoke, Jolly at his feet. He gave the command for the dog to take her down, and down the fuck she went, a hundred pounds of Belgian Malinois on top of her.
More gunfire. More shouting. The deafening cacophony of violence that always seemed to last forever and be over in seconds. Then, suddenly, silence except for the crackling of flames and someone groaning in pain.
“Clear!” George’s voice cut through the smoke.
“Clear!” Ben echoed. “Suspect in custody.”
“Southwest clear!” Logan.
I waited another heartbeat, then two, before I eased my weight off Charlotte. She was shaking, her laptop clutched against her chest like armor. “Clear. I’ve got Charlotte.”
