Chapter 13
Z
The server room hummed with the cold, mechanical breath of a thousand processors, but to me, the world felt completely frozen.
The tactical map on the wall screen wasn't just displaying locations; it was showing live countdown timers.
Fort Liberty: 08:12
Norfolk Naval Station: 08:12
Pentagon Command: 08:12
"You're out of your mind," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, though my rifle remained locked onto her chest. "You can't breach the primary defense grid from a remote terminal in Switzerland. The air-gapped protocols—"
"The air-gapped protocols were designed by General Vance's team six years ago," Diane interrupted smoothly, standing up from her chair and walking casually around the glass desk. She didn't look at the gun pointed at her heart. She looked at me like a teacher explaining a simple equation. "And who do you think funded Vance’s private defense consulting firm when he left active command? Who do you think paid for his daughter’s medical treatments in Zurich?"
A cold shockwave rippled down my spine.
"Vance..." I choked out.
"Marcus Vance has been on my payroll since before you took your commission, Claire," Diane laughed softly, the sound ringing off the stone walls like shattering ice. "Why do you think he was so eager to send you here alone? Off the record? No support? He didn't send you here to stop me. He sent you here to be the final piece of digital authentication."
She pointed to the terminal interface glowing on the desk.
"The master override requires a active-duty officer’s biometric signature combined with a local network ping. The moment you walked into this valley with that satellite transponder Vance gave you... you unlocked the final firewall for me."
My blood ran completely cold.
I looked down at the tactical transponder clipped to my vest—the one Vance had handed me on my front porch in Alexandria. A tiny green LED light on the side was pulsing rapidly, transmitting my active military credentials directly into the local server array.
I had been played. Again.
Vance hadn't sent me to save my family. He had used my devotion, my sense of duty, and my relentless drive to protect my brother as the key to launch a catastrophic cyber-strike against my own country.
"You used me," I whispered, the rage inside me igniting into a roaring inferno.
"I raised you to be a weapon, Claire," Diane said, taking a step toward me, reaching out a hand as if to touch my face. "And a weapon doesn't complain about who pulls the trigger."
I didn't hesitate.
I squeezed the trigger of the HK416.
THWACK.
The suppressed round struck the glass terminal on the desk directly behind her, shattering the master touchscreen into ten thousand glittering shards and severing the main fiber-optic link to the server array.
Diane ducked, her composure finally shattering as she dove behind the heavy steel server rack.
"Security! Kill her!" she screamed into her lapel mic.
The heavy iron door of the server vault was kicked wide open. Three guards in full tactical body armor flooded the room, submachine guns roaring as they opened fire.
Muzzle flashes strobed through the dim room. Bullets tore through the stone walls and server casings, sending clouds of sparks and black smoke billowing into the air.
I dove sideways behind a heavy steel support pillar, copper jacketed rounds biting into the stone inches from my head. I leaned out, fired three precise semi-automatic double-taps, dropping the lead guard instantly with two rounds to the neck gap above his vest.
The remaining two guards pushed forward, suppressing my position with continuous fire.
I unclipped a flashbang from my vest, pulled the pin with my teeth, and tossed it over the top of the pillar.
BANG!
The concussive wave blew out the remaining light fixtures, plunging the server vault into near-total darkness, illuminated only by the burning server racks and the red emergency strobes.
I stepped out from behind the pillar in the dark, my night-vision goggles snapping down over my eyes. To me, the world turned bright neon green.
The two guards were staggering, disoriented, hands over their ears. I fired twice—two clean, lethal center-mass shots. They collapsed to the steel floorboards without a sound.
I racked the bolt of my rifle, sweeping the room.
Diane was gone.
A secondary emergency exit at the back of the vault—a narrow stone stairwell leading deeper into the mountain—hung wide open.
"Claire!" Vance’s voice crackled through my earpiece, suddenly sounding frantic, distorted by static. "Claire, report! The signal from your transponder was severed! Did you authorize the transfer?"
I pulled the satellite transponder off my vest, brought it to my mouth, and spoke with a terrifying, absolute calm.
"I know what you did, Marcus."
Silence deadened the line for three agonizing seconds.
When Vance spoke again, his gravelly, authoritative tone was completely gone, replaced by the cold, transactional voice of a traitor.
"You should have stayed in Alexandria, Major," Vance said flatly. "A strike team from the Swiss Mercenary Group is already entering the valley. In five minutes, this entire compound will be carpet-bombed to clean the paper trail. You're dying in that mountain."
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"I survived Syria, Marcus," I said, dropping the transponder onto the floor and crushing it beneath the heel of my tactical boot. "And when I get out of this mountain... I'm coming for you."
I turned and sprinted into the dark stone stairwell, chasing my mother into the frozen heart of the Alps.
