CHAPTER 18
Callum
The back of the commercial van smells faintly of fertilizer, old oil, and the sharp, metallic scent of the weapons I am currently checking for the third time.
The van slows down, the tires humming against the smooth, expensive asphalt of the Hamptons.
"We are two miles out," Ben’s voice calls back from the driver’s seat. "The residential zoning ends here. The rest of the road is entirely private property owned by Marcus Thorne. High hedges on both sides. No pedestrian sidewalks."
"Pull over before we hit the line of sight of the gate cameras," I instruct, standing up in a low crouch.
The van veers slightly to the right, the tires crunching onto a gravel shoulder, and comes to a complete stop.
I move toward the front partition. There is no metal grate separating the cargo area from the cab, just the gap between the two front seats.
Gemma is sitting in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead at the tree-lined road. She is clutching the encrypted drive in her left hand, her right arm resting defensively across her stitched ribs. She doesn't look back at me.
"Ben," I say, leaning between the seats. "Keep the engine running. Monitor the local police frequencies. If you hear any chatter about a breach at the Thorne estate before I detonate the water main, it means they spotted me on the approach."
"And if they spot you?" Ben asks, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
"You drive away."
"Right. Got it." Ben nods, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white.
I shift my gaze to Gemma.
She finally turns her head. Her dark eyes are wide, the bruising on her jaw looking stark in the bright morning light.
She doesn't say anything. She doesn't argue about the extraction protocol like she did in the motel room.
She just looks at me with a quiet, terrifying intensity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
She is planning something.
I can see the gears turning behind her eyes. She agreed to stay in the van, but she has absolutely no intention of leaving without me.
"Gemma," I say, my voice dropping to a low, commanding register. "Do not leave this vehicle."
"I heard you the first time, Callum," she replies, her tone perfectly even.
"I mean it. If you step out of this van, you become a variable I cannot control. If I have to worry about you catching a stray bullet in the woods, I will hesitate. Do you understand?"
She bites the inside of her cheek. The small, nervous tic is the only crack in her facade.
"I understand," she says softly. "Just... be fast."
"Twenty-five minutes," I remind her. "The utility trucks will arrive twenty-five minutes after the detonation. That is my window."
I don't kiss her again. The time for emotional indulgence is over.
I need my mind completely clear, entirely devoid of the terrifying reality that I have something to lose.
I pull back from the gap between the seats, grab the black canvas bag containing the C4, and push the rear doors of the van open.
I step out onto the gravel shoulder.
The air is crisp, smelling of salt water and expensive landscaping. The Hamptons are quiet in the off-season. There is no traffic.
I shut the van doors quietly, ensuring the latch clicks without a heavy slam.
I don't walk down the road. I step directly into the thick, manicured hedges lining the right side of the asphalt, pushing through the dense foliage until I am completely concealed by the tree line.
I begin the approach.
Moving silently through a forest is difficult.
Moving silently through a curated, private estate is incredibly tedious.
Every branch has been pruned, every patch of dead leaves cleared away by groundskeepers.
The lack of natural debris means there is less to step on, but it also means there is less cover.
I keep my center of gravity low, moving from the shadow of one massive oak tree to the next.
Two miles takes me exactly thirty-four minutes.
I stop behind the thick trunk of an old elm tree, crouching down into the damp soil. Through the brush, I can see the perimeter wall.
Ben wasn't exaggerating. It is a twelve-foot-high monstrosity of reinforced concrete, painted a tasteful, muted gray to blend in with the aesthetic of the neighborhood.
The top is lined with tight coils of razor wire.
Every fifty feet, a small, black dome camera is mounted to the concrete, the red LED light indicating the thermal optics are active.
I check my watch. 9:14 AM.
I look to my right. About twenty yards outside the wall, hidden beneath a patch of perfectly manicured grass, is a heavy iron grate. The municipal water main access vault.
I wait.
The patrol rotation is fifteen minutes. I need to know exactly where the guards are before I cross the open ground to the vault.
At 9:18 AM, two men in dark tactical gear walk past my line of sight on the inside of the wall.
I can only see the tops of their heads and the barrels of their rifles over the concrete.
They are moving casually, talking to each other.
They don't expect an assault in broad daylight in one of the wealthiest zip codes in America.
They pass the section of the wall nearest to the vault and continue their patrol toward the front gate.
I have exactly fourteen minutes before they circle back.
I slip out from behind the elm tree. I stay low, crossing the twenty yards of open grass in a rapid, silent sprint. I drop to my knees beside the iron grate.
It is heavy, rusted shut from years of disuse. I pull the combat knife from my vest, wedging the thick steel blade under the edge of the iron, and pry upward. The metal groans, a harsh, scraping sound that seems deafening in the quiet morning air.
I freeze, my hand resting on the hilt of the knife, waiting for a shout from the guards.
Nothing.
I pry the grate the rest of the way up, sliding it onto the grass.
The vault is a narrow, concrete shaft dropping ten feet straight down into the earth. An old, rusted metal ladder is bolted to the side. I swing my legs over the edge and climb down into the dark.
The smell of damp earth and stagnant water is overpowering. At the bottom of the shaft, a massive, cast-iron pipe runs horizontally through the concrete. It is at least three feet in diameter, carrying thousands of gallons of highly pressurized water directly into Marcus Thorne’s compound.
I pull the black canvas bag from my shoulder and unzip it.
I take the block of C4 and press it directly against the underside of the pipe, molding the pliable explosive into a thick, concentrated wedge. I insert the blasting cap, ensuring the wires are securely connected to the remote receiver.
I don't need to destroy the entire pipe. I just need to crack the cast iron. The water pressure will do the rest.
I climb back up the ladder, pulling myself out of the vault. I slide the heavy iron grate back into place, ensuring it looks entirely undisturbed, and sprint back to the cover of the tree line.
I drop behind the elm tree, pulling the detonator from my vest pocket.
I check my watch. 9:25 AM.
I press the button.
The explosion is muffled by the earth, but the seismic shockwave is unmistakable. The ground beneath my boots vibrates violently. A split second later, a massive geyser of muddy water erupts from the iron grate, shooting twenty feet into the air like a geyser.
The cast-iron pipe didn't just crack; it shattered.
Thousands of gallons of pressurized water begin flooding the manicured lawn, washing over the asphalt of the private access road, turning the pristine entrance of the compound into a swamp.
The loud, piercing shriek of a proximity alarm begins blaring from the perimeter wall.
"Alpha Team, report!" a voice shouts from the other side of the concrete. It’s the patrol I saw earlier. They are running back toward the source of the noise.
"The water main blew!" the second guard yells over the sound of the rushing water. "The vault is completely flooded. It’s washing out the foundation of the wall!"
I sit perfectly still behind the tree, watching the chaos unfold.
The timer has started. Twenty-five minutes until the utility trucks arrive.
I pull the submachine gun from my chest, resting the stock against my shoulder.
I slow my breathing, actively forcing my heart rate down.
The adrenaline wants me to move, to breach the wall now while they are distracted, but that is a rookie mistake.
The gates are still closed. The thermal cameras are still active.
I wait.
The water continues to geyser out of the vault, flooding the road. The guards on the other side of the wall are shouting into their radios, trying to coordinate a response.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen.
"Control, this is Gate," a new voice crackles over the external loudspeakers mounted near the front entrance. "We have two county utility trucks approaching the perimeter. They are requesting immediate access to shut off the primary valve inside the compound."
"Copy that, Gate," a voice replies over the loudspeaker. "Marcus authorized the breach protocol. Open the gates. Let them in, but keep an armed escort on the utility workers at all times."
The heavy, metallic grinding of gears echoes through the trees.
I shift my position, peering through the brush.
The massive, solid steel gates at the front of the compound are slowly swinging inward.
Two large, yellow utility trucks, their orange hazard lights flashing, slowly roll onto the flooded access road. The water is halfway up their tires. Four guards in tactical gear step out from the guardhouse, their rifles lowered but ready, directing the trucks toward the internal utility shed.
The gates remain open to allow the trucks to maneuver.
This is my window.
I don't run toward the open gates. The guards are entirely focused on the trucks, but their peripheral vision still covers the entrance.