Chapter 13
The shadows of the foundry swallowed Brooke as she slipped silently away from the primary slag hopper, leaving the co-pilot and the sleeping twins hidden beneath a tarp of heavy rubber sheeting. The rain continued to drum a relentless, rhythmic tattoo against the rusted tin roof far above, punctuated by the occasional distant rumble of thunder.
Up on the catwalks, the beam of a high-intensity tactical flashlight cut through the gloom, sweeping methodically across the massive machinery below.
"Clear the upper tier," a gruff, heavily accented voice ordered in the darkness—a Russian mercenary speaking through a secure tactical radio. "The asset is on foot. She couldn't have made it to the perimeter fence in this weather."
Brooke crouched behind the rusted chassis of an old ore-crusher, her breathing slow, shallow, and controlled. She adjusted the grip on her Sig Sauer, her mind calculating angles, trajectories, and response times. There were four of them on the upper tier. She could hear the distinct metallic click of a rifle safety being disengaged twenty feet to her left.
She needed a distraction. Something loud enough to draw them toward the far side of the complex, away from the drainage pipe where the co-pilot was currently moving the twins.
Scanning the floor around her, her eyes landed on an old pneumatic pressure valve attached to a dormant hydraulic line. If she ruptured the seal, the sudden release of compressed air would sound precisely like a flashbang or a suppressed weapon discharge, echoing off the iron walls and creating an auditory nightmare for anyone using thermal or acoustic tracking gear.
Creeping forward like a ghost, Brooke slid across the wet concrete. She reached the valve, wrapped both hands around the rusted wheel, and wrenched it counterclockwise with all her might.
Hiiiiissssss!
The compressed air exploded from the line with the force of a jet engine, screaming into the cavernous space of the foundry and kicking up a thick, choking cloud of decades-old iron dust.
"Contact! Sector four! Movement by the ore-crusher!" a mercenary screamed into his radio, his voice instantly swallowed by the roaring hiss of the air line.
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All four flashlights converged on the ore-crusher in a blinding cluster of white light. Automatic gunfire chewed the old machinery to pieces, sending a hailstorm of sparks and jagged iron fragments flying through the air.
Taking advantage of the chaos and the blinding glare of their own flashlights, Brooke sprinted in the opposite direction, melting into the absolute blackness beneath a secondary catwalk. She didn't fire a shot. She didn't need to. She was leading them on a merry chase through a maze she was currently writing the rules for.
