CHAPTER 18 #2
Instead, I move laterally through the tree line, heading toward the section of the wall that is currently being washed out by the flooded water main.
The ground here is a muddy, unstable mess.
The thermal camera mounted above this section is pointing directly at the geyser, blinded by the massive plume of cold water.
I step out of the trees, sprinting across the flooded grass.
I reach the base of the twelve-foot concrete wall. I don't try to climb it. I grab the edge of the rusted iron grate, which has been partially dislodged by the water pressure, and haul it completely out of the way.
The vault is flooded, but the water is rushing out so fast it has created a temporary air pocket near the top of the shattered pipe.
I take a deep breath, hold my rifle tight against my chest, and drop into the freezing, muddy water.
The current is incredibly strong, trying to push me back up toward the surface, but I force myself down, grabbing the jagged edge of the broken cast-iron pipe. I pull my body forward, sliding into the dark, flooded service tunnel beneath the concrete wall.
It is a blind, terrifying push. The water is freezing, numbing my limbs instantly. I scrape my shoulders against the rusted iron, kicking my boots against the sides of the pipe to propel myself forward.
Ten feet. Fifteen feet.
My lungs start to burn.
I feel the pipe angle upward. I push hard, breaking the surface of the water inside the compound’s internal utility shed.
I gasp for air, pulling myself out of the flooded access hatch and collapsing onto the concrete floor of the shed.
I am inside the walls.
I don't waste time resting. I stand up, water pouring off my tactical gear. I check the submachine gun. The weapon is designed for maritime operations; the water won't affect the firing mechanism.
I press my back against the thin metal door of the utility shed.
Outside, I can hear the loud, idling engines of the utility trucks and the shouting of the guards.
"Shut the valve off!" a guard yells. "The basement is going to flood if we don't kill the pressure!"
I push the door open a fraction of an inch.
The utility shed is located at the rear of the main house, near the servant’s entrance. The guards are entirely focused on the front of the property, watching the utility workers wrestle with a massive steel wheel in the mud.
I slip out of the shed, moving silently along the pristine white siding of the mansion.
I reach the back door. It is locked, but it’s a standard electronic keypad, not biometric. I pull a small, encrypted bypass key from my vest, plug it into the bottom of the keypad, and wait three seconds.
The light turns green.
I push the door open and step into the kitchen.
The interior of the house is absurdly opulent. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and massive crystal chandeliers. It is completely quiet. The internal security detail is likely positioned at the front doors and the bottom of the main staircase.
I need to get to the basement. I need to trigger the fire suppression manifold.
I move through the kitchen, my wet boots squeaking faintly against the marble. I find the door leading to the basement stairs. It is unlocked.
I descend into the dark.
The basement of Marcus Thorne’s house isn't a server room. It is a massive, sprawling wine cellar and utility hub. I move past rows of expensive vintage bottles, heading toward the heavy red pipes of the fire suppression system mounted on the far wall.
I find the primary manifold. It is protected by a glass case with a bright red handle inside.
PULL IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.
I raise the heavy steel stock of the submachine gun and smash the glass.
The sound of shattering glass is loud, but the alarm that follows is deafening.
A high-pitched, piercing siren instantly begins blaring throughout the entire mansion. Strobe lights flash in the hallways. The sound is designed to cause absolute sensory overload, forcing anyone inside the building to evacuate immediately.
I don't wait for the sprinklers to engage.
I turn and sprint back up the stairs.
The element of stealth is gone. The house is in chaos.
I burst through the basement door into the kitchen.
Two men in dark suits are running down the main hallway toward me, their weapons drawn. They aren't looking for an intruder; they are responding to the fire alarm.
They see me.
They don't even have time to raise their guns.
I raise the submachine gun and fire two short, controlled bursts. The suppressed weapon spits quietly, but the impact is devastating. Both men drop to the marble floor, their bodies sliding slightly on the polished stone.
I step over them, moving toward the grand staircase in the foyer.
The siren is screaming. The strobe lights are blinding.
I take the stairs three at a time, my eyes locked on the landing above.
The master suite is at the end of the second-floor hallway.
I reach the top of the stairs.
A third guard steps out of a side room, a heavy shotgun raised to his shoulder.
I don't break stride. I drop to one knee, sliding across the hardwood floor, and fire a single burst into his chest. He collapses backward into the room, his shotgun discharging harmlessly into the ceiling.
I stand up, my boots slipping slightly on the polished wood, and sprint toward the heavy double doors of the master suite.
The biometric scanner mounted on the wall next to the door is flashing green. The fire protocol worked. The magnetic locks are disengaged.
I don't bother turning the handle. I raise my boot and kick the double doors open with enough force to shatter the wooden frame.
I step into the room, the submachine gun raised to my shoulder.
The master suite is massive, featuring a king-size bed, a sitting area, and a wall of windows looking out over the flooded front lawn.
Marcus Thorne is standing near the windows.
He is wearing a silk dressing gown over a pair of expensive slacks. He is holding a silver revolver, his hands shaking so violently the barrel is pointing at the floor. He looks terrified. He looks exactly like the coward he is.
He sees me.
The color completely drains from his face. He recognizes the dark, wet tactical gear. He recognizes the man he tried to burn.
"Callum," Marcus gasps, taking a stumbling step backward. He tries to raise the silver revolver. "Wait. Wait, we can make a deal. I have money. I have—"
I don't let him finish the sentence.
I don't negotiate with dead men.
I pull the trigger.
The submachine gun kicks against my shoulder. Three rounds hit Marcus dead center in the chest.
He is thrown backward by the impact, crashing through the floor-to-ceiling window behind him. The glass shatters outward, and Marcus Thorne falls two stories down, landing heavily on the flooded concrete driveway below.
I lower the weapon.
The siren is still screaming. The strobe lights are still flashing.
But the contract is complete. The head of the snake is dead.
I turn around, ready to fight my way back down the stairs and out the back door.
I take one step toward the hallway.
And then, the radio clipped to my vest crackles to life.
It isn't the encrypted channel I used to taunt the mercenaries. It is the secondary frequency Ben set up for our internal comms.
"Callum."
It’s Ben’s voice. But he isn't speaking in his usual, rapid-fire cadence. He sounds out of breath. He sounds terrified.
"Ben, I have the target," I say, pressing the transmit button. "I am extracting now. Have the van ready."
"Callum, don't come to the van," Ben says, a wet, choking cough interrupting his words.
I freeze in the doorway of the master suite. The adrenaline in my veins turns instantly to ice.
"Ben. Report your status."
"They found us," Ben gasps. "A patrol vehicle... they swept the highway. They saw the van."
"Where is Gemma?" I demand, my voice completely losing its professional calm.
There is a long, agonizing pause on the radio. I can hear the sound of a struggle in the background. The sound of someone being dragged.
"I tried to stop them," Ben whispers, his voice fading. "I’m sorry, Callum. They took her."
The radio goes dead.
I stand in the doorway of the ruined master suite, the siren screaming in my ears.
The world doesn't narrow. It completely shatters.
They took her.