Chapter 24 - Severed Ties
The run across sixty yards of open tarmac was an eternity paved in fire and rain.
I kept one hand locked into the back of Vance’s collar, dragging him like a sack of discarded ballast across the wet concrete. He was sobbing incoherently, his knees dragging, his hands clutching desperately at my wrists. "Marcus, please, don't leave me out here! I'll give you the accounts! Twelve million in the Cayman trust! It's yours, all of it! Just get me inside!"
"Shut your mouth," I snarled, hauling him forward as a burst of suppressed rounds chipped concrete at our heels. "Your money is paper, Vance. Out here, the only currency is copper and lead."
Behind us, General Hayes had Eleanor by the arm, moving with a disciplined, low-profile tactical stride that defied his sixty-odd years. Eleanor stumbled twice, her designer heels long lost in the mud, her bare feet bleeding against the sharp gravel of the tarmac. She looked back over her shoulder, watching the ballroom lights glittering in the distant main pavilion through the rain—warm, dry, untouchable, filled with ambassadors and politicians who had already written off her existence.
"They aren't coming for us," she whispered, her eyes wide with shock as the reality settled into her bones. "The Secretary... he turned the security grid off. He authorized the kill order."
"Of course he did," Hayes replied coldly, shoving her through the steel service hatch of Hangar 4. "You gave him the shell corporation names. You were the only witness who could link the missing four billion from the Defense Logistics Agency back to his campaign finance committee. You thought you were playing chess, Eleanor. You were just a pawn with an expensive address."
Miller crossed the threshold last, kicking the heavy steel blast door shut and slamming the double mechanical latches into place. A second later, a high-explosive breaching charge detonated against the exterior plate, sending a violent shockwave through the steel that knocked Miller back onto the concrete floor. The door bowed inward, but the industrial vault locks held.
The hangar was pitch black, illuminated only by the red emergency exit beacons and the rhythmic sweep of lightning through the high clerestory windows. The smell of aviation fuel, damp rust, and ozone hung thick in the air.
Vance collapsed against a stack of wooden crates, his chest heaving, his face white as chalk. "What do we do? What do we do? They have gunships! They're going to level the building!"
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I pulled a fresh magazine from my tactical rig, slammed it home into the carbine with the heel of my hand, and let the bolt strip forward with a sharp, mechanical clack.
"They won't bomb the hangar," I said, walking slowly toward him until the muzzle of my weapon was hovering inches from his trembling chin. "Because the real evidence isn't on a flash drive, is it, Vance? It's on the hard drives in the subterranean vault right beneath our feet. The drives you built to blackmail your own handlers."
