Ryder fired instantly. The gunshot was deafening in the confined space, a concussive blast that punched a hole straight through the flying plastic basket. A blizzard of shredded white paper exploded into the air, filling the room with a blinding cloud of confetti.
I grabbed the back of Greg’s belt and yanked him toward the rear of the office. We scrambled through the narrow doorway that connected to the maintenance garage, pulling the heavy fire door shut behind us just as Ryder’s flashlight beam swept back across the desk.
The maintenance garage was pitch black and smelled heavily of diesel fuel and old tires. We stumbled over scattered tools, racing toward the metal emergency exit that let out into the main impound yard. I shoved the crash bar, and we spilled out into the freezing night air.
The impound yard was a sprawling, chaotic maze of crushed sedans, rusted chassis, and towering commercial freight liners. I dragged Greg between two rusted school buses, plunging us deep into the shadows just as the rear garage door flew open.
Ryder stepped into the yard. He didn't run. He raised his weapon, the tactical flashlight mounted under the barrel cutting wide, methodical arcs across the rows of seized vehicles.
"You can't hide in my yard, Walt!" Ryder’s voice carried over the cold metal, sharp and echoing. "The front gate is chained. The perimeter fence is topped with razor wire. You are locked in a cage with me."
We crouched in the dirt behind the massive rear dual tires of a seized logging truck. Greg was hyperventilating, his chest heaving as he clutched his knees.
"Agent Miller," I whispered into the phone. "We are in the main lot. The suspect has fired his weapon. He is actively hunting us."
"Troopers are turning onto the industrial park access road right now," Miller said, the tension finally bleeding into his professional tone. "They are one minute from the main gate."
"The gate is secured with heavy logging chains," I told him, looking toward the front of the property. Ryder’s cruiser was parked horizontally across the entrance, creating a second physical barrier. "They won't be able to just drive through it."
Ryder’s flashlight beam swept down our aisle, illuminating the chrome bumper of the truck next to us. He was closing the distance, checking between the rows with military precision.
I looked down at the thick leather ledger in my hands. It was the only thing that could permanently end this nightmare. If Ryder cornered us here, he would put a bullet in both of us and burn the book before the State Police could cut through the reinforced chains at the gate.
I had to make a choice. I could stay hidden and hope the cavalry arrived in time, or I could ensure the evidence survived, even if I didn't.
I shoved the heavy ledger into Greg’s trembling hands.
Greg stared at it, horrified. "What are you doing?"
"Take it," I ordered, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Crawl under these chassis. Keep moving toward the drainage culvert at the back of the property. Do not come out until you see State Troopers."
"He'll find me," Greg panicked, trying to hand the book back.
"He won't be looking for you," I said, taking a slow breath to steady my own racing pulse. "I'm going to draw him away. I'm going to clear the gate."
Before Greg could argue, I broke cover.
I sprinted across the open gravel lane, deliberately kicking a loose hubcap. The metal clattered loudly against a rusted rim.
"There!" Ryder shouted. His flashlight beam snapped toward the sound, catching my shoulder as I ducked behind a row of impounded cargo vans. A second gunshot ripped through the night, shattering the side mirror of the van just inches from my head.