Chapter 14 #2
Isabella moves with quiet efficiency while I finish final preparations. Checking equipment, memorizing the facility layout one more time on Luc's tablet. No hesitation, no fear bleeding through to compromise her focus.
Van der Berg's team suits up in tactical black. Suppressed weapons, night vision, communications gear. They move like a single organism, years of operations together showing in wordless coordination.
Near midnight, we load into vehicles. Isabella rides with me and Luc in the lead car. Van der Berg's team follows in their two vehicles, staggered to avoid convoy appearance.
Rotterdam's port district spreads out before us at night. Shipping containers cast long shadows under sodium lights, diesel and salt water thick in the air, industrial silence broken only by distant machinery.
We park several blocks from the target facility. The rest of the approach is on foot.
Van der Berg's team moves first. Silent shadows disappearing into the maze of warehouses and containers. Luc, Isabella, and I follow moments behind.
The facility appears, reinforced doors, cameras at corners, motion sensors on the roofline. Two guards are visible on exterior patrol, both armed with automatic weapons, moving in coordinated patterns that suggest professional training.
Van der Berg's voice crackles through the comm unit. "Exterior guards neutralized. North wall is clear. Move now."
We move fast. Luc leads, weapon up, scanning for threats. I follow with Isabella between us, hand on her shoulder to guide her through the darkness.
The north wall emergency exit appears ahead. Card reader glowing red, locked.
I pull the bypass kit from my tactical vest. Military-grade electronics spoofing, illegal as hell and completely untraceable. The kind of equipment Cerberus provides for ops that need to stay off the books.
Seconds to crack the reader, then the lock clicks. Red light shifts to green.
"We're in," I say into the comm. "Moving to target section."
The door opens onto a dim corridor. Emergency lighting casts everything in red. The air smells like chemicals and metal, cold and sterile in a way that feels wrong.
Luc moves ahead, clearing corners. I keep Isabella close, one hand on her vest, guiding her through the facility layout we memorized.
The storage section opens up ahead. Refrigerated units line the walls, pharmaceutical labels in Dutch and German, rows of reinforced containers designed to move dangerous materials without triggering customs alerts.
"There," Isabella whispers. She points to a section along the east wall. Units marked with specific handling codes. "Those match the profile Brenner described."
We move closer. Isabella pulls out the UV scanner, starts checking containers.
The first unit glows faint blue under UV. Wrong wavelength.
The second unit shows pale yellow. She shakes it carefully, and the viscosity looks right through the sealed container.
"Activation compound," she says. "Confirmed."
"Keep going," I say. "Find the other two."
She works fast. Scanning, checking, moving to the next unit. The training drills paying off with no hesitation, no second-guessing.
Third unit glows pale yellow but the viscosity is wrong when she shakes it. A decoy.
Fourth unit shows nothing under UV but the viscosity when she shakes it is honey-thick. "Binding agent. Confirmed."
Two down, one to go.
Fifth unit is larger than the others. Medical-grade labeling, hazard warnings in three languages. Isabella scans it with no UV reaction. She checks the seal, frowns.
"Seal's been compromised," she says quietly. "I can smell ammonia."
Base catalyst. The third component.
"Confirmed," she says. "All three components present and verified."
"Good. Step back."
I pull the shaped charges from my tactical bag. Pre-configured explosive packages designed to contain and incinerate without dispersing aerosols. Each charge gets positioned on the verified units. Activation compound first, then binding agent, then base catalyst.
Detonators slide into place with practiced ease. Wireless triggers synced to my remote, a built-in delay programmed into the sequence. My standard safety margin, long enough to clear the blast radius but short enough that targets can't defuse in time.
"Charges set," I say into the comm. "Beginning extraction."
That's when the alarms start screaming.
Red emergency lights strobe through the storage section. Klaxons blaring loud enough to wake the dead. Someone in security just realized we're here.
"Contact!" Van der Berg's voice cuts through the comm. "Multiple hostiles converging on your position. Get out now!"
Gunfire erupts from somewhere in the facility. Automatic weapons fire echoing through corridors.
"Move!" I grab Isabella's arm, pull her toward the exit. Luc's already ahead, weapon up, clearing our route.
The interior patrol converges on the storage section. Four men in tactical gear, weapons already coming up as they clear the doorway with professional precision. They clock us immediately. No hesitation, no warning, just muzzles tracking toward center mass.
The first shots crack out before I can shout a warning.
Rounds punch through refrigerated units. Glass shattering, chemicals hissing as seals break. I return fire, dropping the first guard with two rounds center mass. Blood sprays across pharmaceutical labels. Luc takes the second with a headshot that drops him like a puppet with cut strings.
Two down. Two still shooting.
I put three rounds into the third guard's chest. Watch him stagger, try to raise his weapon, collapse. The fourth tries to dive for cover. Luc's round catches him mid-dive, throat shot that sends him choking and dying behind a storage unit.
Van der Berg's team opens up with suppressing fire from somewhere outside. Heavy weapons tear through the facility's exterior walls, punching fist-sized holes that let in cold night air and sodium light. Creating chaos, drawing attention away from our position.
"North exit!" I shout into the comm. "We need extraction now!"
We hit the corridor at a dead run, Isabella's footsteps pounding between mine and Luc's. More guards ahead, blocking our route to the north exit. I count six hostiles, all armed, all moving with the kind of coordinated precision that gets people killed.
Professional killers. A tactical response team, not warehouse security.
Good. I prefer it when they know what they're doing. Makes it cleaner.
I drop the first guard with a controlled burst, the weapon's recoil familiar against my shoulder.
He goes down hard. Second guard tries to dive for cover.
My rounds catch him mid-movement, spinning him into a storage rack that crashes over with him.
Luc takes the third with a headshot that paints the wall behind him.
Three down in as many seconds.
But there are too many. They're spreading out, using the corridor's width to flank us, trying to box us in. Standard tactical response. They know what they're doing.
So do we.
A round cracks past my ear, close enough I feel the displacement of air. Isabella flinches but keeps moving, trusting me to keep her alive. Another burst stitches across the wall to our left, concrete dust blooming in the air.
"Alternate route!" Luc shouts over the gunfire. "Loading dock!"
We pivot hard, Isabella stumbling slightly before I catch her vest and haul her forward.
Running toward the east side where Van der Berg's team is supposed to be maintaining extraction vehicles.
She keeps pace between us, breathing hard, feet slapping concrete in rhythm with the gunfire echoing through the facility.
The smell of gunfire is thick now, mixing with chemical fumes from ruptured containers. My ears ring from rounds echoing off concrete walls. Every breath tastes like smoke and adrenaline.
The loading dock opens up ahead. Van der Berg's vehicles are visible through the bay doors, his team laying down suppressing fire that keeps Iron Choir security pinned behind shipping equipment. Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness. Brass casings scatter across concrete.
We're nearly clear, maybe ten meters from the vehicles, when Lazarev steps into view.
Automatic weapon raised, expensive suit replaced with tactical gear, eyes locked on me with recognition that turns my blood cold. Not from fear, but from the dark satisfaction of finally getting to finish what Yemen started.
"Pascal," he says in Russian-accented English. "Right on schedule."
I raise my weapon, finger on the trigger, calculating the shot. "Get out of the way."
"Or what? You'll shoot me?" His smile is cold. Dead. The smile of a man who's already decided he's willing to die as long as I die with him. "I've been waiting for this. Waiting for you to come after these compounds so I could confirm what I already suspected."
"I don't have time for this." I advance, weapon trained on his chest. Not his head—chest shots are more forgiving if Isabella moves or if he dodges. I want him down, not a firefight that gets her killed. "Move or die. Simple choice."
"Your demolition signature is very distinctive, Pascal.
Shaped charges, wireless triggers, built-in delay for safe extraction.
" Lazarev's eyes are dark with satisfaction, with the twisted pleasure of a man who's spent years planning this moment.
"The same pattern you've used for years.
The same pattern I watched you perfect in Afghanistan. "
"Our intel was right," I say. "You're one of the buyers. Purchasing Isabella's compounds through your Cayman shell."
"Was purchasing." Lazarev's weapon tracks between me and Isabella. "Until you placed the charges to destroy millions in product. The Iron Choir will want compensation. And I want something more personal."
Behind me, my remote beeps. The wireless trigger confirming charges are armed and counting down. Five minutes until detonation.
"We need to leave," Luc says urgently. "Now, Remy."