Chapter 9 - The Final Takedown
Voss had a Bureau helicopter waiting on the roof of a nearby parking garage. We climbed aboard, the rotors thundering to life, and lifted off into the night sky, heading south toward Atlantic City.
“Grimes is at the Vandenberg meeting,” Voss shouted over the noise. “We got intel an hour ago. He’s there to make the final payoff — fifty million in cash, in exchange for Vandenberg getting you and the evidence. They’re gonna disappear together. Fly to some island with no extradition treaty. Live like kings.”
She tapped the laptop case at my feet. “That evidence is the only thing that can stop them. If we get it to the US Attorney’s team waiting outside the hotel, we can take them all down. Every last one of them. But we have to get there before they leave. The meeting breaks at 2 a.m.”
I looked at my watch. 1:17 a.m. Forty-three minutes.
The helicopter raced south, the lights of the Jersey Shore spreading out below us like a sea of diamonds. The Atlantic City skyline appeared ahead, the casinos glowing bright against the black ocean. Voss pointed to the largest one — the Vandenberg Plaza, its neon sign blazing like a beacon.
“That’s it,” she said. “The penthouse. The entire top floor. Vandenberg has the whole place wired — security, cameras, snipers on the roof. We go in quiet. Fast. Our team is breaching the service entrance in five minutes. We go in through the roof.”
She handed me a bulletproof vest. “Put this on. And stay behind me. No heroics. Your job is to get the evidence to the US Attorney. Nothing else.”
I strapped on the vest, checking the Glock at my waist. One bullet left. I hoped I wouldn’t need it.
The helicopter dropped fast, hovering ten feet above the Vandenberg Plaza’s roof. Voss slid the door open, the wind nearly tearing the laptop case from my hands. She tossed a grappling hook, which caught with a metallic clang, then nodded at me.
“Go!”
I rappelled down first, hitting the roof rolling, the case clutched to my chest. Voss followed, landing light as a cat. We moved fast across the roof, staying low, toward the stairwell door. Two of Vandenberg’s guards stood outside, smoking, their backs to us. Voss took them down silently with two well-placed blows to the head, catching their bodies before they hit the ground.
She picked the lock on the stairwell door in three seconds. We slipped inside, descending the stairs as fast and quietly as we could. The penthouse was on the sixtieth floor. By the time we reached the landing, my legs were burning.
Voss pressed her ear to the door, listening. Then she held up three fingers. Two. One.
She kicked the door open.
“FBI! DOWN ON THE GROUND! NOW!”
The penthouse was massive, its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the ocean. A long conference table ran down the center, around which sat a dozen men in expensive suits — the heads of the East Coast crime families. Vandenberg sat at the head, old, fat, his face a map of scars and cruelty. And beside him, in a tailored suit that cost more than my car, sat Walter Grimes.
Chaos erupted. Men shouted, reaching for guns. Voss fired two shots into the ceiling, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. “I said down! Next one moves gets a bullet in the head!”
Most of them froze, slowly raising their hands. But Vandenberg and Grimes didn’t. They were already running for the private elevator at the back of the room, Vandenberg’s personal guards covering their retreat.
“Go!” Voss shouted at me, firing at the guards. “Get them! I’ll hold these guys!”
I didn’t hesitate. I sprinted after them, the laptop case bouncing against my back. The elevator doors were closing as I rounded the corner. I dove, sliding through the gap just as they hissed shut.
I landed hard on the carpet inside. Grimes and Vandenberg stared at me, shocked. Then Vandenberg laughed — a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the mirrored walls.
“Well,” he said, pulling a gun from his waistband. “Look what the cat dragged in. The prodigal son. You have something of mine, boy. Hand it over, and I might make your death quick.”
I stood, slowly drawing my own gun. One bullet. I had to make it count.
“It’s over, Vandenberg,” I said. “The FBI is everywhere. Your men are either dead or in cuffs. Grimes is going down with you. There’s nowhere to run.”
Grimes stepped forward, his face red with rage. “You little bastard. Do you know what you’ve done? I had it all! Power! Money! Respect! Your father took twenty years of my life — and now you’re gonna take the rest!”
He reached inside his jacket.
I fired.
The bullet hit him square in the shoulder. He screamed, stumbling back, clutching the wound. Vandenberg raised his gun — but before he could fire, the elevator jolted to a stop. The lights flickered, then went out. Emergency power kicked in, bathing us in dim red light.
The doors slid open. Voss stood there, her rifle raised, flanked by a dozen agents in tactical gear.
“Drop it, Vandenberg,” she said. Her voice was like ice. “Now.”
Vandenberg looked at her. At the agents. At Grimes, whimpering on the floor. He looked at me. Then, slowly, he let his gun fall from his hand. It clattered on the floor.
Two agents moved in, slapping cuffs on him. Two more dragged Grimes to his feet, securing his wounded arm. Vandenberg looked at me as they led him past, his eyes full of hatred.
“This isn’t over, boy,” he spat. “I have friends. Lots of them. You’ll never be safe. None of you will.”
I didn’t flinch. “I’m not scared of you anymore.”
They led him away. Voss lowered her rifle, letting out a long breath. She looked at me, a tired smile on her face.
“Nice shot,” she said. “For an engineer’s son.”
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“Learned from the best,” I said.
She clapped me on the shoulder. “C’mon. The US Attorney is waiting for the evidence. And then —” her voice softened “— then I think you have a phone call to make.”
