Chapter 7 - The Confrontation in the Cabin
The heavy silence of the midnight forest was suddenly shattered by the thunderous crash of the tactical team breaching the wooden door of Cabin 4.
"FBI! Don't move! Hands where we can see them!" Agent Miller’s voice bellowed through the dark, echoing off the rotting timber walls.
Flashes of tactical lights cut through the dusty interior of the cabin like white-hot lasers. I stayed close behind Agent Miller, keeping low as I stepped over the splintered wreckage of the front door.
Inside, the cabin was sparse—a rusted iron cot, a small wooden table cluttered with maps, burner phones, and cash, and a man cornered against the back wall. It was Dominic Cruz.
He was dressed in dark cargo pants and a black tactical hoodie. For a fraction of a second, panic flashed across his hardened face, but it was quickly replaced by a chilling, arrogant smirk. He didn't reach for a gun; instead, his hands were raised slowly in mock surrender, resting right beside a heavy, metallic device resting on the table before him—another detonator box with a blinking green status light.
"Hold your fire! Clear!" an operator shouted, sweeping the corners of the single-room cabin.
Agent Miller stepped forward, his sidearm trained dead-center on Cruz’s chest. "Dominic Cruz, you are under arrest for domestic terrorism, conspiracy, and multiple counts of murder. Put your hands behind your back!"
Cruz laughed, a dry, raspy sound that made my skin crawl. He slowly turned his head to look directly past the tactical agents, locking his cold, dark eyes onto mine.
"Well, well. If it isn't the mom from Table 14," Cruz mocked, his voice dripping with venomous amusement. "I have to hand it to you, lady. Your little kid has sharper eyes than my surveillance team gave him credit for. You ruined a masterpiece tonight."
"Where is she?" I demanded, stepping out from behind Agent Miller, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Where is my sister, you coward?!"
Cruz grinned wider, tilting his head. "Vanessa? Oh, she’s sleeping soundly. Right beneath the rubble of the ballroom floor she worked so hard to decorate. Turns out, marrying an international fugitive comes with a very heavy insurance policy. Viktor thought he could take the syndicate's four million dollars and play domestic bliss in upstate New York. He forgot a fundamental rule of our business: debts are always paid in full."
"You monster," I hissed, taking a step forward before Agent Miller’s arm shot out to bar my path.
"It's business, sweetheart," Cruz sneered, his fingers twitching dangerously close to the metallic detonator box on the table. "And speaking of business... you guys really should check your communications before you play hero."
Before Agent Miller could bark an order, Cruz slammed his palm down onto a large red button on the control box.
Nothing blew up. Instead, a shrill, piercing electronic ringtone echoed from the tactical vest radio clipped to Agent Miller’s chest.
Agent Miller frowned, lowering his gun slightly with one hand while pulling the radio free with the other. "Miller. Report."
A frantic, breathless voice crackled over the secure channel. “Agent Miller! This is Command! We have an urgent update! We intercepted an encrypted satellite transmission from Cruz’s terminal—the bombing at the resort was just a diversionary secondary trigger! Primary extraction coordinates indicate Vanessa Hayes is not dead—she was abducted by a secondary syndicate extraction team during the chaos and is currently being transported in a black armored van heading north on Interstate 87 toward the Canadian border!”
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My breath caught in my throat. Vanessa wasn't dead under the rubble. She was alive, and she had been kidnapped by the Iron Vow.
Cruz threw his head back and laughed hysterically as two FBI operators tackled him to the floor, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto his wrists. "Game isn't over yet, mom. Have a safe trip!"
