Chapter 7
Z
The shrill, piercing tone of the priority military alert shivered through the quiet library, bouncing off the high timbered ceiling and leather-bound volumes. It wasn't a standard text or a routine call; it was an automated Emergency Command Intercept—a protocol reserved exclusively for top-tier national security breaches and immediate flag-officer arrests.
For a split second, Adrian’s eyes flickered down toward the pocket of his uniform trousers where his government-issued phone was violently buzzing. The two security contractors behind him hesitated, their instinctual military training forcing them to reach for their devices.
That split second was all I needed.
I didn't draw my gun. I moved with the explosive, lethal speed cultivated through hundreds of hours of close-quarters combat training. I closed the ten-foot gap between us before Adrian could re-acquire his sight picture.
My left hand swept upward, striking the barrel of his suppressed pistol and redirecting the line of fire into the heavy Persian rug just as he instinctively pulled the trigger.
Pfft.
The round tore into the carpet, kickstarting a cloud of wool dust. In the same continuous motion, I drove the heel of my right palm directly into Adrian’s nose with brutal force. Bone snapped like dry tinder. Blood erupted across his immaculate white collar as he shrieked, his head snapping backward, his grip on the weapon instantly slackening.
I snatched the gun from his hands, spun on my heel, and fired two rapid shots into the knees of the first security contractor before he could draw his weapon.
Pfft-pfft.
The man collapsed with a guttural roar of agony, clutching his shattered kneecaps as he hit the floor.
The second contractor—a massive, six-foot-four operator with a scarred jaw—lunged at me, attempting to wrap his massive arms around my shoulders in a bear hug. I dropped low, sweeping my right leg across his ankles. As he stumbled forward, carried by his own momentum, I pulled the ceramic combat blade from my thigh sheath and drove the blunt butt of the handle violently into his temple. He went down hard, his forehead bouncing off the edge of a mahogany reading desk before he slumped into unconsciousness.
The entire engagement lasted four point eight seconds.
Adrian was on his hands and knees in the center of the room, gasping for air, blood pouring onto his gold-embroidered sleeves. He looked up at me through tear-filled, pain-racked eyes, his broken nose grotesquely dislocated to the left.
"Who... who the hell are you?" he choked out, coughing up crimson spatters.
I stood over him, holding his own suppressed pistol pointed squarely at his chest, my navy velvet dress completely unruffled except for a light dusting of plaster on the hem.
"Serena Mercer," I said calmly. "Senior Operations Director, Department of Defense, Counter-Intelligence Division. And you, Commander, are under arrest for treason, conspiracy to commit murder, and grand larceny against the United States Navy."
The heavy oak doors of the library groaned as someone attempted to turn the latch from the outside. Then came a heavy, authoritative pounding.
"Commander Vale! Open this door immediately!" a booming voice demanded. It was Admiral Miller, the head of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, accompanied by two armed Shore Patrol officers. "By order of the Joint Chiefs, all staff are to stand down!"
I reached down, grabbed Adrian by the collar of his uniform jacket, and dragged him across the floor to his feet with a strength that belied my slender frame. He groaned in agony, unable to offer any resistance as I pushed him toward the center of the room.
"Jonas," I spoke clearly into my collar pin. "Unlock the door control from the main server board."
A soft click echoed from the ancient lock mechanism. The double oak doors swung open violently, revealing Admiral Miller, four heavily armed Naval MPs with drawn sidearms, and a crowd of shocked, pale-faced party guests spilling into the corridor behind them.
At the very front of the crowd stood my mother.
Her hand was pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with total, unadulterated horror. She looked at the blood dripping from Commander Adrian Vale’s face, she looked at the two groaning contractors bleeding on the Persian rug, and then her eyes landed on me—her quiet, administrative daughter, standing in her blue velvet dress, holding a military-grade suppressed firearm with cold, practiced precision.
"S-Serena?" my mother stammered, her voice barely a squeak. "What... what have you done?"
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Beside Admiral Miller stood Rear Admiral Curtis Blake. But Blake wasn't looking at me. He was looking at two federal agents in dark suits who had just stepped up behind him, carrying a set of heavy steel handcuffs.
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