Chapter 4 - The Corridors of Coronado
Z
The heavy blast doors of Vault Seven did not open with a polite chime; they shuddered under the concussive slam of a linear breaching charge. Dust and pulverized insulation rained down from the ceiling joints as the pressure wave rippled through the reinforced concrete walls.
"Down!" Sloane shouted, pulling me behind the reinforced titanium workstation as the second charge detonated.
The thick steel doors groaned, buckled inward, and blew off their heavy hydraulic hinges in a blinding flash of magnesium light and gray smoke. Through the billowing smog came the sharp, staccato cracks of suppressed submachine guns. High-velocity rounds ricocheted off the server towers, sending showers of white-hot sparks and shattering glass raining across the floor.
These weren't standard military police officers executing an arrest warrant. They wore matte-black tactical uniforms with no patches, no identifying insignia, and thermal night-vision goggles mounted to ballistic helmets. They were a private death squad, contracted to clean up loose ends before sunrise.
I rolled from behind the desk, bringing my weapon up in a two-handed grip. I acquired the lead shooter's silhouette through the haze—center mass, two rapid squeezes of the trigger. The 9mm rounds hammered into his ceramic plate carrier, staggering him backward into his teammate and buying us half a second of breathing room.
"Rear escape hatch!" Sloane yelled, returning fire with three precise shots that dropped the second breacher into the rubble. "Maintenance tunnel leads directly to the subterranean submarine dry docks! Move!"
I snatched the decrypted flash drive from the terminal slot, jammed the challenge coin back into my pocket, and sprinted toward the narrow hatch at the rear of the chamber. Behind us, the vault was being systematically shredded by automatic gunfire. A stray bullet grazed the steel ladder above my shoulder, leaving a glowing copper streak in the metal.
I kicked the manual release bar on the emergency door. It swung open into a dark, cavernous tunnel that smelled of damp concrete, stagnant ocean water, and decades of diesel exhaust. Sloane plunged through behind me, slamming the heavy hatch shut and spinning the iron locking wheel until the teeth engaged with a heavy clank.
Two seconds later, heavy impacts hammered against the other side of the door.
"That door won't hold against thermite," I breathed, flicking on the under-barrel flashlight of my sidearm. The narrow beam cut through the subterranean gloom, illuminating damp brickwork and dripping pipes that stretched hundreds of yards into the dark.
"It doesn't need to hold forever," Sloane said, reloading her magazine on the move. "It only needs to hold until we reach the dockmaster's office. I have a contingent of Reaper operators staging at the pier."
"Admiral, if Arthur Vance is pulling the strings, your Reaper operators might already be compromised," I said, setting a fast, tactical pace down the slippery corridor. "Vance Defense Systems supplies the biometric communication gear for every special operations unit on this coast. If he sent this kill team, he knows every radio frequency we use."
Sloane didn't answer immediately. The sound of our footsteps echoed off the curved walls of the maintenance shaft. In the dim light, I could see the lines of exhaustion and fury carved deep into her face. She had spent thirty-four years serving the flag, believing in the sanctity of the chain of command, only to discover that the rot went straight to the boardroom of the country's most powerful military supplier.
"Then we don't use radios," she said finally, her voice dropping into a dangerous, predatory calm. "We go analog. We take the surface route through the old shipyard."
At the end of the tunnel, a rusted vertical iron ladder climbed fifty feet toward an overhead storm grate. I went up first, checking my corners through the iron slats before shoving the heavy grate aside.
We emerged into the freezing coastal downpour behind the dry dock facility. The rain was coming down in sheets now, driven by a howling Pacific gale that masked the sound of our movements. Across the open asphalt of the shipyards, three black SUVs were parked in a triangular formation near the security checkpoint, their engines idling with low, guttural rumbles.
Standing under the awning of the guard shack, illuminated by the harsh yellow glare of a sodium floodlight, was Commander Kell. He was on a satellite phone, gesturing furiously with his hands.
"...I don't care about the collateral damage!" Kell's voice carried over the sound of the wind. "The Admiral is irrelevant! Vance said Ruiz cannot leave this island alive! If that drive gets to the federal courthouse in San Diego, we're all going to Leavenworth!"
I leaned close to Sloane behind the cover of a rusted shipping container. "He's taking orders directly from Vance's personal security team."
"He just committed treason on an open frequency," Sloane whispered, her eyes flashing with lethal intent. "Take the SUV on the left. I'll take the guards at the gate. We take Kell alive if we can. If not..."
"Understood," I said.
We moved together, two shadows slipping through the rain. I closed the distance to the leftmost vehicle, using the roar of the storm to mask my approach. The driver was sitting inside with the windows fogged up, checking his tactical tablet.
I didn't give him a chance to react. I smashed the driver-side window with the butt of my weapon, reached inside to unlock the door, dragged the operative out onto the concrete before he could draw his sidearm, and neutralized him with a swift strike to the temple.
Gunfire erupted by the guard shack.
Sloane had engaged the two sentries with ruthless efficiency. Kell dropped his satellite phone in terror, scrambling toward the center SUV like a cornered rat.
I sprinted across the rain-soaked tarmac, cutting off his escape route. Kell pulled a compact automatic from his jacket, his eyes wild with desperation.
"Don't move, Ruiz!" he screamed, his hands shaking violently in the freezing rain. "You have no idea who you're fighting! Your father owns the senators! He owns the judges! You're dead the second you cross the bridge!"
I stepped forward, closing the distance without slowing down. "My father forgot one thing, Commander."
Kell fired. The bullet went wide, skipping off the asphalt near my boots.
I closed the gap, grabbed his wrist, twisted the weapon out of his grip with a sickening snap of bone, and drove my knee into his midsection. Kell collapsed to his knees, gasping for air in the mud.
May you like
Sloane walked up, her smoking sidearm held at her side. She looked down at Blackwood's disgraced aide with utter disgust.
"Get in the truck, Kell," Sloane said softly. "You're going to make a phone call to General Blackwood, and you're going to tell him that everything went according to plan."
