Chapter 5 - Blood on the Manifest
“You can’t extinguish thermite!” Sofia shouted, running toward the cabinet. “Water will cause a steam explosion! It’ll incinerate the room!”
“Then how do we save the data?” Hale yelled, shielding his face from the blinding, searing heat that was already blistering the paint on the metal cabinet.
“The hard-drive array has a manual ejection latch on the back panel!” Sofia yelled back, coughing as toxic white smoke began to billow from the melting housing. “Underneath the power supply! Pull the master release lever!”
Hale didn't hesitate. Ignoring the blistering heat that scorched the sleeves of his uniform, he reached around the rear of the rack, his fingers finding a heavy steel release handle. With a guttural roar, he yanked it downward.
A heavy, insulated drawer containing twelve solid-state server drives clicked and popped out of the chassis, sliding free onto a set of heavy steel tracks just three inches below the glowing thermite block.
Hale grabbed the drawer’s heat-resistant handle and ripped the entire unit clear of the frame, throwing it across the concrete floor away from the flames just as the thermite block detonated into a blinding, five-thousand-degree white sun.
The molten slag ate through the server chassis in three seconds, liquefying the steel like candle wax and burning a two-inch crater straight into the reinforced industrial floor.
Riley kept Mercer pinned, her fingers buried in his collar, twisting the fabric tight against his carotid artery until his struggles subsided into weak, frantic slaps against the floor.
“It’s over, Cole,” Riley whispered into his ear. “Look at that fire. That was meant for you.”
Mercer stared at the puddle of liquid steel bubbling on the floor four feet from his head. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, dilated with animal terror. The heat was washing over them like an open furnace door, but the realization in his mind was ice cold.
“He was going to lock me in,” Mercer gasped, his voice cracking into a ragged sob. “The elevator power... Lawson turned it off. He was going to burn me alive.”
“Where is the shipment going, Mercer?” Hale demanded, stepping back from the smoke, his face smudged with black carbon, his uniform shirt singing at the cuffs. “The trucks. Where are they?”
Mercer choked, gasping for air under Riley’s knee. “Hangar Nine. The old civilian maintenance strip on the north perimeter. They’re loading two unmarked eighteen-wheelers right now. Lawson hired an off-post private security contractor—Vanguard Logistics. They aren't military. They’re mercenaries with corporate badges.”
“What time does the convoy leave?” Riley demanded, easing the pressure on his throat just enough to let him speak.
“Midnight,” Mercer whispered. “Twenty minutes from now. They’re using the severe storm warning as cover. Lawson arranged for the north perimeter gate sensors to go offline for routine maintenance at zero-hundred hours.”
Hale picked up the insulated server drawer. It was heavy, weighing at least thirty pounds, but inside were the complete unencrypted logs of Project 317: five years of illicit weapons diversion, millions of dollars in electronic transfers, and the names of every officer, contractor, and corrupt official involved in the pipeline.
“Captain,” Sofia said, looking at the ceiling speakers.
A low, pulsing siren had begun to wail throughout the subterranean complex.
A recorded voice echoed over the PA system: *“Attention all personnel. Security condition Black. Terrorist infiltration confirmed in Sector Seven subterranean infrastructure. Authorized use of lethal force is now active for all perimeter sentries. Repeat: Authorized use of lethal force.”*
Hale checked his weapon. “Lawson isn't just framing Mercer anymore. He’s declared the three of us hostiles. He’s given his contractor security team free rein to kill anyone coming out of this motor pool.”
Riley stood up, dragging Mercer to his feet by his collar. Mercer didn't resist. His spirit was broken; the reality of his own disposable nature in Lawson’s machine had hollowed him out.
“Can you walk, Sergeant?” Riley asked him coldly.
Mercer nodded dumbly. “Yeah.”
May you like
“Good,” Riley said, picking up the Glock 19 from the floor, clearing the chamber, and tucking it into her waistband. “Because you’re going to walk us straight into Hangar Nine.”
***
