Chapter 12
Z
The air over the Swiss Alps was a sharp, biting cold that cut straight through my tactical jacket.
Thirty-six hours after Colonel Vance sat on my porch in Virginia, I stood on the rocky ridge of Mount Titlis, overlooking a snow-covered valley six thousand feet below. Through my high-powered night-vision optics, the target location looked like an ancient stone monastery nestled against the sheer cliffside.
In reality, it was a heavily fortified compound known in intelligence circles as "The Nest"—Viktor Varga’s private, off-grid command center.
"Check in, Alpha," Vance’s voice crackled through my encrypted earpiece from a command post four hundred miles away in Ramstein.
"I have visual on the perimeter," I whispered into my throat mic, crouching low against the snow-covered pine branches. "Thermal imaging shows twelve armed guards on the upper parapets. Automated security grid is active. Heavy satellite uplink on the east wing."
"Remember, Claire, you have zero diplomatic coverage," Vance warned. "If Swiss Federal Police catch you inside that valley, it’s a twenty-year sentence in a foreign prison. No rescue coming."
"Understood," I replied softly.
I adjusted my white snow-camo suit, checked the suppressed barrel of my HK416 rifle, and secured my climbing harness. I didn't have a team. I didn't have air support. I was a single ghost moving through the dark against a fortress built by the woman who had spent thirty years studying how I thought.
I stepped off the edge of the cliff.
The rappelling line unspooled silently through my friction device as I descended down the sheer rock face, dropping five hundred feet into the shadow of the compound’s northern wall. The wind howled through the canyon, masking the faint sound of my boots landing on the snow-covered stone parapet.
I detached the line, dropping low into a shadow beside a heavy wooden door.
Two guards approached on routine patrol, their heavy boots crunching through the fresh snow. They were chatting in Russian, cigarettes glowing in the freezing dark.
I waited until they crossed directly beneath my position.
I dropped from the wall silently, landing behind the rear guard, my arm snapping around his throat in a lethal sleeper hold while simultaneously driving a tactical knife into the side armor of the second guard. Before the second man could make a sound, I twisted the blade, catching his falling body and dragging them both into the dark alcove beneath the stairwell.
It took me three minutes to breach the heavy oak door using an electronic bypass tap on the lock’s internal circuit board.
The interior of the compound was vast, heated, and lined with centuries-old stone arches merged with cutting-edge surveillance technology. Fiber-optic cables ran along medieval stone walls, lit by soft blue floor lighting.
I moved like a shadow through the corridors, bypassing the main living quarters and heading straight for the subterranean vault where the heavy server racks hummed.
If my mother was liquidating two hundred million dollars and preparing to launch a strike against the state witnesses, she had to execute the transfers from the central terminal.
I reached the reinforced iron door of the server vault.
It was slightly ajar. A warm strip of light spilled across the cold stone floor.
I raised my rifle, my finger resting lightly against the trigger, and pushed the heavy iron door open with the toe of my boot.
Inside, the room was lined with towering server units. Sitting at a sleek glass desk in the center of the room was Diane Hale.
She wasn't wearing tactical gear. She wore an exquisite cashmere sweater, holding a glass of amber whiskey in one hand while her other hand tapped casually on a glass touchscreen terminal.
"You took twenty minutes longer than I calculated, Claire," she said smoothly, without looking up from the screen.
I didn't lower my rifle. The red laser dot of my optic rested precisely over the center of her chest.
"Step away from the terminal," I said, my voice as cold as the Alpine air outside.
Diane slowly set her whiskey glass down on the desk. She turned her swivel chair around, crossing her legs, looking at me with that same maddening, unshakeable composure.
"Did Vance send you?" she asked, a faint smirk touching her lips. "Or did your own stubborn morality drag you all the way across the Atlantic?"
"The body in Arlington was a nice touch," I said, taking two slow steps into the room, keeping my eyes locked on her hands. "Synthetic Tetrodotoxin. A paid-off coroner. You really thought everyone would just pack up and go home."
"They did pack up and go home," Diane replied, leaning back in her chair. "The federal government closed the file. The media moved on. Your father is playing house in Virginia. Evan is buying furniture in Richmond. Everyone got their happy ending, Claire. Except you. You just couldn't let the ghost stay buried, could you?"
"You have the manifest of the federal witnesses," I said, the rifle barrel never wavering. "You're planning to kill Judge Bell. You're planning to come after Evan."
Diane let out a long, soft sigh, shaking her head like a mother disappointed by a child's poor reading comprehension.
"Oh, Claire... you always were so limited by your tactical training," she said softly. "I don't care about Judge Bell. I don't care about Evan. They are irrelevant bugs under my heel."
She tapped the glass touchscreen behind her.
The main monitor above the server racks flickered to life, displaying a real-time tactical map of North America, with three glowing red target icons flashing over major military installations: Fort Liberty, Norfolk Naval Station, and the Pentagon.
My stomach dropped into a cold abyss.
May you like
"What is that?" I demanded.
"The two hundred million dollars wasn't for me to retire, my dear," Diane whispered, her eyes shining with a terrifying, wild brilliance. "It was the down payment for the master override codes to the automated defense grid you helped build in Syria. I'm not running away, Claire. I'm taking the entire system down."
