Chapter 78 - Blood in the Hull
We breached the heavy watertight hatch of the *Astraea’s* main superstructure with a shaped linear cutting charge that blew the hinges inward with a deafening *CRACK*.
The interior of the ship was not a standard marine layout. The bulkheads were stripped down to raw, fireproof composite panels, lined with racks upon racks of humming, glowing server blades. Fiber-optic cables as thick as fire hoses snaked across the floor like synthetic roots, pulsing with faint blue data lights.
This was the central nervous system of the Consortium—the vault where the extortion ledgers of the Western hemisphere were compiled, curated, and held ready for deployment.
"Chen, lock onto the terminals!" I barked, stepping over the smoking debris of the hatch. "Download everything to the clean drives, then wipe their physical memory with the EMP canisters!"
"On it!" Chen dropped to her knees before the primary master terminal, her fingers flying across the custom console with blinding speed.
Miller and I pushed deeper into the vessel, moving through the narrow, blood-slicked corridors toward the bridge deck. Two more private contractors charged around the corner, firing wildly with compact submachine guns.
I took a grazing round to my left shoulder—a sharp, burning sting that barely registered against the roar of combat—before driving forward and putting three rounds into the chest of the lead shooter. Miller stepped past me, slamming the second contractor into the steel bulkhead and ending him with a combat blade to the carotid artery.
The corridor was clear.
At the far end of the passageway stood the double blast doors leading into the ship’s primary command and control suite. The electronic lock was flashing a mocking, solid amber: *SECURED / ARCHON OVERRIDE*.
"Stand back," Miller said, reaching for his demolition pack.
"No time," I said.
I walked over to the dead contractor on the floor, seized his severed thumb, and jammed it against the biometric reader while simultaneously slamming the emergency manual mechanical override handle downward with all my weight.
The heavy hydraulic pins screeched in protest, fighting the manual force, before snapping with a violent *CLANG*.
The blast doors slid open.
Inside, the bridge was illuminated only by the faint glow of twenty tactical display monitors displaying live maps of international financial exchanges, naval ship deployments, and satellite tracking coordinates.
Standing at the center of the panoramic observation window, his back turned toward me, was Marcus Sterling.
He was still wearing the clean medical scrubs he had worn inside Walter Reed, though the sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms and the faded anchor scar running down the left side of his neck.
On the console beside him lay an open satellite phone, a half-empty glass of Scotch, and a black digital detonator keyed to a countdown timer displaying: *00:03:42*.
"You are twenty years too late, General Gardner," Marcus said quietly without turning around.
"Turn around and face the woman whose daughter you tortured," I said, my rifle leveled dead center at the base of his skull. "Or die looking at the dark."
Slowly, deliberately, Marcus turned.
His gray eyes were completely vacant—not the manic, hysterical eyes of his cousin Arthur, but the hollow, terrifying emptiness of a true fanatic who viewed human lives as mere arithmetic.
"I didn't torture your daughter, General," Marcus said smoothly, taking a sip from his glass. "Arthur was a vulgar, insecure beast who indulged his petty domestic psychoses. I despise vulgarity. Abigail was meant to be an asset. Arthur ruined her value with his amateurism."
"She is not an asset," I said, taking two deliberate steps toward him, my finger resting on the crisp edge of the trigger. "She is my child. And you are going to die for touching her life."
May you like
"Perhaps," Marcus smiled, his lips peeling back from white, perfectly straight teeth. "But before you pull that trigger, General, look at screen four."
***
