Girl Under Fire (A Sam Hemming FBI Thriller Prequel) by Julia Payne (top 5 books to read .TXT) 📗

Glock pointed up, I checked the ceiling and the walls of this floor for cameras. None. This floor seemed to be unmonitored. Even with all the art and sculptures, security here seemed lax, until I realized why. The kind of people who visited this place did not want to be caught on camera. Cameras could be hacked into, recordings could be admissible in court, and video evidence could be used to blackmail. For this reason, there were no cameras, I figured. That had to be it.

It occurred to me then that the paintings here were not just for the art lover. The crates that were stacked up were the kinds that held expensive paintings. These were pieces of art used in the money laundering business, just as the expensive bottles of liquor down below were. I wondered how much Nyke would stand to lose if I torched this building. But I am sure all of it was insured.

I moved further inward and found a door at the end of the room. It had to be in the control room. As I moved closer, I listened for sounds. I was talking, breathing, walking – anything that would give me an idea of the number of goons behind the door. But there was nothing there. Not as far as I could hear.

I rushed to the door to catch whoever was behind it by surprise and found only one guy at the table. More than thirty screens spread across the wall in front of him. By the time he could react to my presence, I dispatched a bullet for a rendezvous with his head. I closed the door and took my time. Pushing the dead guy to the corner of the room, I sat on another chair and scoured the landscape.

Most of the men were gone. Only a small group of men were out on the sidewalk and on the streets. I could see footage from the drones that remained in hover mode above the surrounding intersections. I could see the intersection where the team was ambushed. The SWAT vans had been cleared. I wondered where they took them too. They probably dumped them in the River. Then I realized that most of the men involved in the ambush did not seem to be anywhere on the screens.

"Odd," I whispered. "Where did they go?" But that was not my real concern at this point. I scoured the images for the third floor. None of them had Nyke on them, but the cameras showed there was no one else either. Aside from a small contingent of men in the lobby, the rest of the building had hollowed out.

I found the control panel and scrubbed back a few minutes and saw the men all assemble in the lobby then leave out the front door. They got into their vehicles and left. Scouring the drone footage, I could see they headed into the Holland Tunnel. And they were in a hurry.

It was time to lay it all out on the table. I exited the control room and moved swiftly to the stir, and made my way up. It did not matter if the camera was on since the control room was now unmanned. I reached the top of the stairs to find it empty; only voices came from one of the three doors at the end of the vast hall.

I moved quickly to where I thought I heard the sounds form and bust in to find five men sitting around a table. These were Nyke's local affiliates. I could recognize each of them. Nyke was the man at the head of the table. It was apparent none of them expected me, but the one with the quickest reflex was Nyke. He moved for his gun but was not fast enough as I buried one of my bullets in the shoulder of his shooting arm. By the pain that escaped him in a grunt, I could tell it had severed the Brachial Plexus. His arm fell to the side, as his brain could no longer control it. The injury was not severe enough to kill him, but it was enough to immobilize him.

"I thought you were in Teterboro," Nyke finally says.

I pretend I had other things to do while I passed around plastic ties to all the others around the table.  They obediently bound ankles and wrists and sat on the floor as they were told. To Nyke, I gave him just the hand ties which he did himself without the use of his right arm.

I pulled out the phone I had taken in the basement, placed the dead man's thumb on it, and called a friend of mine.

"It’s me,” I said as he answered his phone.

“What’s wrong?” he asked right away, noting that the VoIP call came from behind layers of obfuscation.

“Remember the Nyke bust I told you about?” I asked as Nyke stared at me coldly.

“Yeah,” Pat answered.

“Well, it went sideways. There is a mole at the Bureau, and I am not sure how high it goes,” I tell him.

“So, you want us to scoop Nyke?” Pat asks.

“Yeah,” I say, almost in a whisper, as I stare back at the man who thinks his stare is enough to intimidate me.

“Where is he now?” Pat asks.

“He is right in front of me. You need to come now.”

“Where?” Pat asks. I explain the whole thing, and he promises to send the Secret Service team that is stationed in New York. The Secret Service is not just tasked with the security of the President. A role not many people know about has to do with counterfeit and money laundering activities.

“That’s not far. We’ll be there in ten,” he assures me.

“Will you be coming too?” I ask, suddenly needing to see a familiar face.

“Of course. I am already on my way.”

As promised, the Secret