CHAPTER 10
Callum
A tactical distraction requires two elements to be effective: it must be loud enough to completely overwhelm the enemy’s sensory input, and it must be credible enough to convince them that the primary target is exactly where the noise is.
I walk into the shattered remains of the living room.
The morning sun is fully above the tree line now, casting a harsh, unforgiving light over the destruction. The cold wind whips through the broken polycarbonate, scattering loose papers and drywall dust across the concrete floor.
I ignore the mess, walking straight to the kitchen island.
I need an explosive. Not a breaching charge, but something concussive and incendiary. Something that looks like a desperate, last-ditch effort to destroy evidence.
I open the lower cabinets, bypassing the dry goods, and pull out three large bottles of high-proof grain alcohol I keep for sterilizing medical equipment in the field.
I set them on the marble counter. Next, I pull a block of C4 from my tactical bag.
It’s a small amount, roughly half a pound, reserved for destroying the server rig in the event of an unrecoverable breach.
I wire the C4 to a remote detonator, pressing the pliable explosive against the glass bottles.
It is a crude incendiary charge. When it detonates, the C4 will vaporize the glass, and the expanding heat will ignite the vaporized alcohol, creating a massive, localized fireball.
It won't level the house, but it will blow the roof off the kitchen and send a column of black smoke fifty feet into the air.
The remaining mercenaries will assume I triggered a self-destruct protocol. They will rush the house to secure the perimeter before the fire destroys the server room.
And while they are rushing the front door, Gemma and I will be walking out the back.
I set the rigged explosive inside the microwave, leaving the door slightly cracked so the blast wave directs outward toward the living room rather than down into the basement foundation.
I check my watch. 7:42 AM.
I pull the stolen radio from my cargo pocket. The encrypted channel has been completely silent since the firefight last night. The three surviving mercenaries are maintaining strict radio discipline, waiting for orders or reinforcements.
I press the transmit button.
"Alpha Leader, this is Reed," I say, my voice calm, projecting the exact tone of a man who has run out of options and is trying to negotiate a surrender.
I wait. Five seconds pass.
"You’re still breathing, Fixer," the deep, accented voice crackles through the speaker. "I’m surprised. I thought you would have put a bullet in your own head by now to save us the trouble."
"The girl is dead," I lie smoothly.
There is a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "What did you say?"
"She caught a stray round during your breach," I continue, injecting just enough fatigue into my voice to make the lie credible. "She bled out twenty minutes ago. The encryption keys died with her."
"You’re lying to buy time."
"I have the physical drive," I say, ignoring his accusation. "I am willing to hand it over in exchange for a clean walk-away. You take the hardware back to the syndicate, tell them the girl is neutralized, and I disappear."
Silence. The mercenary leader is calculating the angle. He knows I am dangerous, but he also knows I am trapped. If he returns with the drive and the news that the hacker is dead, he still gets paid.
"Throw the drive out the front door," the leader finally says. "Step out with your hands empty. If the drive is intact, you walk."
"I’m not a fool," I reply. "I walk out the front door, you put a sniper round through my chest. I will leave the drive on the kitchen island. I am exiting through the rear perimeter. If you follow me, I will detonate the servers and the drive."
I release the transmit button before he can argue.
The bait is set. He won't let me walk away, but he will prioritize securing the kitchen to get the drive before I can supposedly detonate it. He will pull his men toward the center of the house.
I turn and walk quickly down the hallway, pulling the heavy steel door open and taking the wooden stairs two at a time.
Gemma is standing beside the server desk.
She has the oversized cashmere hoodie zipped up to her throat. The black encrypted drive is clutched tightly in her right hand. The primary monitor behind her is completely black, displaying a single line of text: Wipe Complete.
"It’s done," she says as soon as my boots hit the concrete. "The ledger is on the drive. The local servers are completely scrubbed. If they try to recover the data from these hard drives, they’ll just get corrupted junk files."
"Good." I walk over to her, pulling a spare 9mm magazine from my pocket. I hold it out. "Do you have the weapon?"
She reaches into the front pocket of the hoodie and pulls out the Sig Sauer. Her hand is much steadier today than it was last night. She takes the magazine from me, sliding it into the grip with a sharp click, and pushes the weapon back into her pocket.
"I rigged the kitchen," I tell her, keeping my voice low. "I told them you were dead, and that I was leaving the drive on the island. When I detonate the charge, they will push the front of the house. We are leaving through the emergency egress tunnel behind the server racks."
Gemma looks at the dark corner where the dead mercenary is lying. "There’s a tunnel?"
"It leads to a drainage culvert two hundred yards outside the perimeter wire," I explain, walking past her to the heavy metal racks.
I grab the edge of the server casing and pull hard.
The entire rack swings outward on concealed hinges, revealing a dark, narrow concrete pipe sloping upward into the earth.
"We have exactly three minutes to get to the tree line before they realize the kitchen is empty. "
"And then what?" she asks, stepping closer to the tunnel entrance. "You said we’re stealing their car."
"They parked a tactical transport vehicle off Route 28. It’s an armored SUV. If they followed standard protocol, they left one man behind to guard the vehicle and monitor local police scanners."
"One man," she repeats, her eyes darting to my face. "You’re going to kill him."
"Yes."
I don't soften the word. I don't try to justify it. I simply state the reality of what is about to happen.
She doesn't flinch. She doesn't look away. She just nods once, a short, sharp movement of her chin. "Okay. Let’s go."
I step into the dark tunnel first, turning on a small penlight. The beam cuts through the gloom, illuminating the damp concrete walls and the thick layer of dust on the floor. The tunnel is only four feet high. I have to crouch significantly to move forward, my shoulders brushing the curved walls.
Gemma follows close behind me. I can hear the soft scuff of her boots and the faint rustle of the cashmere hoodie.
We move quickly, the air growing colder and damper the further we get from the basement.
"Callum," she whispers, her voice echoing strangely in the pipe.
"Keep moving," I say.
"I just... if this goes wrong." She hesitates, the sound of her breathing hitching slightly. "If they catch us. Don't let them take me alive."
I stop walking.
The silence in the tunnel is absolute, broken only by the steady drip of water somewhere ahead of us.
I turn my head slowly, looking back over my shoulder.
The beam of the penlight catches the pale curve of her face.
She is terrified, but her eyes are completely resolute.
She heard the radio transmission last night.
She knows what the syndicate wants to do to her.
She is asking me to execute her rather than let her be tortured.
It is a logical, practical request in our line of work.
It also makes my blood run entirely cold.
"Nobody is taking you," I say, my voice dropping to a harsh, unforgiving register.
"But if they do—"
"They won't." I shift my body, turning fully to face her in the cramped space. The proximity forces her to lean back slightly. "I am not going to kill you, Gemma. And I am not going to let anyone else touch you. Do you understand me?"
She stares at me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "You can't promise that. You don't control every variable."
"I control this one," I say.
I hold her gaze for three seconds, ensuring the absolute finality of my statement registers in her mind, before turning back around and continuing down the tunnel.
She doesn't argue again.
We reach the end of the pipe two minutes later. The exit is covered by a heavy iron grate, concealed beneath a thick layer of dead leaves and brush. I push the grate up, the rusted hinges groaning softly, and climb out into the cold morning air.
I reach down, grabbing Gemma’s arm, and haul her up beside me.
We are standing in a dense thicket of pine trees, roughly two hundred yards behind the safe house. The ground is soft and damp, muffling our footsteps.
I pull the remote detonator from my pocket.
"Cover your ears," I tell her.
She presses her hands flat against the sides of her head, squeezing her eyes shut.
I press the button.
The explosion is massive.
Even from two hundred yards away, the concussive wave hits us like a physical wall of air.
The sound is a deep, earth-shattering boom that echoes violently through the valley.
A split second later, a massive fireball erupts from the center of the glass house, blowing the remaining roof panels straight into the sky.
A thick column of black, oily smoke instantly begins to rise above the tree line.
"Move," I order, grabbing her hand.
We run.
I don't care about stealth right now. The explosion is deafening enough to cover the sound of our movement through the brush. I pull her behind me, weaving through the dense trees, heading south toward Route 28.