The Obsidian Contract

I didn't think; I moved. The secure radio on the dashboard was within arm's reach, but using it would broadcast our frequency to anyone monitoring the local police band. Instead, I grabbed the ruggedized tablet, slipped out the passenger door on the opposite side of the SUV, and ducked low behind the chassis of a rusty flatbed truck parked three spaces away. The two enforcers had reached Arthur’s car, pulling the terrified deputy director out of the rear driver's side by his collar while a third man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a jagged scar running from his ear down to his jawline—stepped out from the stairwell holding a heavy brass pipe.

""Where is the digital ledger, Arthur?"" the scarred man growled in heavily accented English that carried across the concrete floor. ""The American thinks he can audit our piers, and you gave him the password."" Arthur was sobbing, his expensive trench coat dragging in the greasy puddle beneath his feet. ""I didn't give him anything! Cross just walked into my office and pulled a gun!"" he shrieked, his voice cracking with sheer terror. ""He has the flash drive with the encryption keys!""

Footsteps echoed sharply from the upper ramp, and Damon appeared on the landing above them, his coat unbuttoned, his expression utterly serene as he looked down at the three men holding Arthur over the pavement. ""Looking for this?"" Damon asked, holding up a small black titanium drive between two fingers. The enforcers whirled around, drawing their sidearms with terrifying speed, but Damon didn't flinch. ""You drop those weapons right now, or the cryptographic keys to every container from here to Halifax get automatically broadcast to the federal maritime commission,"" Damon said, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakeable authority.

The scarred enforcer hesitated, his finger tightening on the trigger of his 9mm pistol as he calculated the risk between his boss's wrath and federal prison. That split second of hesitation was all the opening I needed. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy roll of hundred-dollar bills Damon had shoved into my apron the night before, and hurled it with all my strength across the concrete floor toward a stack of empty steel oil drums. Clang-skitter-crash. The deafening echo reverberated through the hollow parking garage like an explosion, drawing every pair of eyes away from the stairs and toward the dark shadows by the flatbed truck.

For one heart-stopping second, the enforcers swung their weapons toward my position, but Damon didn't waste the distraction. He cleared the iron railing of the upper landing in a fluid, dangerous leap, landing squarely on the shoulders of the lead enforcer and driving him into the pavement with bone-cracking force. The second man fired wildly into the ceiling, raining concrete dust down upon us, before my foot—shod in a sensible flat shoe—hooked the leg of a discarded wooden pallet and slid it directly into his path, sending him sprawling hard across the oil-stained floor.

Before either man could recover, Damon was standing over them with his service weapon drawn, the matte-black barrel leveled precisely at the center of the scarred enforcer's chest. ""It's over,"" Damon said softly, the silence of the parking garage rushing back in to fill the vacuum of violence. ""Tell Gusev his port is closed.""