Chapter Seventeen #5
Foster’s laptop is open on the table between the seats, multiple screens running at once. Code windows. Network maps. Camera icons.
He’s typing fast…faster than I’ve ever seen him move…as he tries to gain access to our security feed.
“Come on…” he mutters under his breath.
“Anything?” Spike asks from across the aisle.
Foster exhales sharply.
“I’ve got the outer compound network,” he says, tapping the keyboard again. “Perimeter cameras, gate cameras, roofline sensors. I even have the feed from inside the clubhouse. But the bunker feed isn’t responding.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“The bunker is on a closed system,” he says without looking up. “Isolated network. It doesn’t run through the same internet line as the compound cameras.”
“That’s bad?” Skip asks.
“It’s good for security,” Foster replies. “Terrible for long-distance access.”
He opens another window and runs something across the screen.
“I’m connected through the jet’s satellite internet,” he explains, almost to himself. “Which is already slow as hell because we’re thirty-five thousand feet in the air and bouncing signals off a damn satellite.”
“So you can’t get the bunker feed?” I press.
“Not from here,” he says.
My chest tightens.
“What can you see?”
Foster pulls up the perimeter camera.
The compound gate fills the screen.
Dark.
Still.
No smoke.
No fire.
But there are bodies.
At least six of them.
My stomach drops like the floor just disappeared beneath me.
Fuck.
“Can you tell who they are?” Spike asks quietly.
“We already know at least one of them is Paul,” I remind them, acid building up my throat.
Foster leans closer to the screen, fingers moving across the trackpad as he zooms in, sharpening the image as much as the satellite connection will allow.
“Just this one,” he says, pointing.
The still body lying half on its side near the gate.
Even from this distance, I know the broad shoulders. The boots. The worn leather vest.
“Mike,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Foster answers just as quietly.
The jet feels colder.
Spike’s hand curls slowly into a fist.
“That’s live?” Maverick asks from behind us.
“Yes,” Foster confirms.
I stare at the screen, trying to force the image to make sense.
Trying to make the bodies move.
Trying to see one of them breathe.
“Zoom to Abby’s roof,” Bones says quietly.
Foster switches cameras.
The sniper position is empty. The chair is knocked over, and blood is smeared across the concrete.
Big T always takes that spot. He says he likes that it’s the closest one to the gate, so he can hear what the visitors are saying to the gate guard.
Spike swears under his breath.
My phone is still in my hand.
Still dialing even with Foster’s words in my head…Still nothing.
“Bunker door logs show it opened,” Foster says. “Less than two minutes after the first shot.”
“They got the warning,” Spike says.
“They moved fast,” Maverick agrees.
“Can you play the feed back?” I ask.
“Not from up here,” Foster answers. “By the time it buffers, we’ll be landing.”
“So we have no idea who all made it into the bunker,” Skip says.
And we won’t know for another…three and a half hours.
“Sir,” the pilot’s voice comes over the cabin intercom, “you’re about to lose your satellite connection.”
Foster’s head snaps up from the laptop.
“What?” he mutters.
“We’re entering a coverage transition,” the pilot continues. “The satellite network we’ve been using doesn’t overlap well over this stretch of the Rockies. Signal will drop until we connect with the next satellite.”
“How long?” Spike asks.
“Could be ten minutes,” the pilot says. “Most likely closer to thirty.”
“Shit,” Foster mutters.
The screen flickers.
“Come on,” Foster breathes. “Come on.”
The image jumps…Then pixelates.
“Satellite handoff,” he says through clenched teeth. “The jet’s antenna has to reacquire the next bird in orbit. There’s nothing I can do until it locks again.”
The screen glitches harder, and as if on cue, the screen goes black.
Connection Lost.
Silence settles over the cabin.
The last thing we saw was Mike lying by the gate…not moving.
And now the entire compound might as well be on another planet.
“It’s evening time,” I say, my voice rough. “Everyone was probably out walking the grounds. Swimming. Letting the kids run around.”
“Which means they were all targets,” Bones says flatly.
“And even if they were inside,” I continue, the words tasting like ash, “the only way into the bunker is through Spike’s house or the clubhouse. So, they all had to leave their homes to get there.”
I swallow hard.
“Turning into targets.”
“There were only two shooters,” Skip mutters, clinging to the smallest scrap of optimism. “Two rifles can only fire so fast.”
“Abigail’s sick,” I say quietly. “She can barely stay awake… let alone run for cover.”
“Patch is strong,” Spike says immediately. “He carried her.”
I want to believe that.
God, I want to believe that.
Foster rubs a hand over his mouth.
“We need an underground tunnel system,” he says. “Every house connected to the bunker. No more forcing people to cross open ground.”
He looks at me.
“Micah can’t move, and he’s getting fucking heavy. We all know Max had to carry him and shield his woman and daughter at the same time.”
Which would have slowed them all down, making them easy targets.
“Do you have cell service?” I ask. I check my phone again, even though I already know the answer.
Nothing.
“No bars,” Skip says, holding his phone up uselessly. “Just a sad little ‘searching’ symbol.”
“Same,” Maverick says. “We’re too high and too far from a tower. Satellite handles most of the communication up here.”
“And that just dropped,” Foster reminds us, nodding toward the dead laptop screen.
“Once we reacquire the next satellite, we’ll get compound access back.”
I stare at my phone again anyway.
Nothing.
“I’m hoping by the time we get signal back,” Maverick says quietly, “the twins will have reached the compound.”
The twins. Of course.
“They’ll assess the damage,” Maverick continues. “Secure the perimeter. Then call.”
The jet suddenly shudders through a pocket of turbulence, causing the cabin lights to flicker before settling.
Foster taps the laptop again, trying to force a reconnection, but the screen stays black.
I close my eyes for a second and picture Abigail curled under the blankets.
Too sick to even keep her eyes open.
God…Please let Patch have gotten her to the bunker unharmed. Please let her be safe.
“Can this thing go any faster?” I mutter.
“This is a Citation X,” Maverick says calmly from across the cabin. “One of the fastest civilian jets ever built. It can push just under seven hundred miles an hour if the pilot really leans on it.”
“That’s it?” Skip scoffs. “Feels like we’re crawling.”
“Blame physics,” Maverick replies. “The speed of sound sits around seven hundred and sixty miles per hour up here. Civilian jets are designed to stay just under it. Once you cross that line, you start throwing sonic booms across half the countryside.”
“Which governments tend to frown upon,” Foster adds without looking up from his laptop.
Bones leans back in his seat.
“So the military gets the fun toys,” he mutters.
Maverick’s mouth twitches slightly.
“Yes. Military aircraft can push well past a thousand miles per hour. Some of them more than twice that.”
Skip whistles.
“So basically,” he says, gesturing around the cabin, “this is the fastest rich-guy toy we’re legally allowed to have.”
“Correct,” Maverick says.
I stare out the window at the endless darkness below.
Three thousand miles away…Seven hundred miles an hour.
And it still feels like we’re not moving fast enough.
Not when every minute that passes is another minute we don’t know who survived back home.