Chapter 13 - Cold Horizon
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The private C-17 Globemaster transport plane cut through the turbulent black skies above the Bering Sea, its quad-turboprop engines roaring against the gale-force Arctic winds. Inside the cargo hold, illuminated by the harsh crimson glow of tactical jump lights, the air was freezing and smelled of aviation fuel and gun oil.
Dominic stood over a steel tactical table in the center of the hold, wrapping thick combat grip-tape around the handle of a modified assault shotgun. He hadn't spoken a word in four hours. His jaw was set in a tight, terrifying line, his eyes dark pits of pure, concentrated fury.
Sitting across from him on a bench, I was hooked up to a portable medical monitor that Dr. Evans—Dominic’s personal physician who had been flown in from Boston—was monitoring with trembling hands.
"Her white blood cell count is spiking, Mr. Mercer," Dr. Evans reported quietly, pointing at the digitized chart on his tablet. "The latent synthetic proteins in her system are activating just as Sterling said. Her body temperature is up to 103 degrees. If we don't get the neutralizing agent within twenty-four hours..."
Evans didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
My head was pounding with a sickening, rhythmic throb. Every light looked distorted, surrounded by strange blue halos. I could feel it—a cold, unnatural sensation slithering through my veins, like liquid ice creeping upward toward my brain.
I reached out, my trembling fingers catching the sleeve of Dominic’s tactical jacket. "Dominic..."
He dropped the weapon instantly, dropping to his knees beside my bench. He took my burning hand in his cold, leather-gloved palms, bringing my knuckles to his lips.
"I'm here," Dominic whispered, his voice cracking slightly—a rare, devastating crack in his armor. "I'm right here, Amelia."
"Caleb..." I gasped out, fighting against the dizzying wave of fever washing over my mind. "Is he... is he safe?"
"He's in a deep-underground military bunker in Nevada," Dominic assured me, his thumb stroking my wrist, feeling my dangerously fast pulse. "Vance is with him. Fifty men are guarding that facility. No one gets near him."
He leaned closer, pressing his forehead against mine, his dark eyes holding my fading gaze with an intensity that burned through the feverish haze.
"You listen to me, Amelia," Dominic growled softly, a fierce, desperate promise in every word. "I am not letting you die in some frozen hellhole. I destroyed the Mercers' sins, I destroyed the Sovereign, and I will burn Arthur Sterling's entire island into glass before I let him take you from me."
"Boss!" The pilot's voice boomed over the internal intercom. "Ten minutes to drop zone! We are entering the radar black-out envelope above Station Omega! Arctic storm is severe—visibility is zero!"
Dominic stood up, his face hardening back into the unyielding mask of a commander going to war. He reached for his heavy thermal tactical coat, strapping his sidearms into their chest holsters.
Beside us, eight elite operatives—the absolute best mercenaries money could buy, veterans of high-threat black ops across three continents—checked their weapons in silent, professional synchronization.
"Listen up!" Dominic barked, his voice echoing over the roar of the engines. "Station Omega is a decommissioned Soviet-era submarine base built two hundred feet beneath the ice shelf on St. Matthew Island. Sterling has a minimum of forty heavily armed private contractors, automated perimeter turrets, and hard-point blast doors."
He picked up his assault rifle, racking the bolt with a loud, metallic clack.
"We are not taking prisoners," Dominic ordered, his eyes flashing with lethal intent. "We break through the main ice trench, we secure the medical laboratory, we extract the neutralizing compound, and we execute Arthur Sterling. No negotiations. No terms. Move to the ramp."
The heavy rear cargo ramp of the aircraft began to lower with a hydraulic groan, exposing the terrifying void of the Arctic night outside. Freezing winds and driving snow whipped into the cabin, instantly dropping the temperature below zero.
I stood up from the bench, swaying slightly as a sharp pain spiked behind my eyes. Dominic was at my side instantly, slipping his arm around my waist, supporting my weight as we walked toward the open edge of the ramp.
"Can you jump?" Dominic asked over the roar of the wind, pulling a thermal oxygen mask over my face.
I looked down at the dark, jagged expanse of ice two thousand feet below us, illuminated only by the strobe lights of the plane. I reached down, my gloved hand gripping the grip of my own suppressed sidearm.
"I am not letting you have all the fun," I whispered through the mask interface.
A dark, fierce pride flashed in Dominic’s eyes. He pulled me tight against his chest, locking our jump harnesses together with a heavy steel carabiner.
"Hold on to me," Dominic commanded into his mask radio. "I've got you."
The green jump light above the ramp flashed to life.
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"GREEN LIGHT! GO! GO! GO!" the loadmaster yelled.
Dominic didn't hesitate. He stepped off the edge of the ramp, dragging us out into the freezing, turbulent void of the Arctic sky, plunging downward into the storm toward the secret stronghold of the man who held my life in his hands.
