Chapter 83 - The Iron Council
The three pursuing SUVs were equipped with tactical ram bumpers and forward-mounted high-caliber suppressors. The lead vehicle didn't bother flashing warning signals; it surged forward, attempting to PIT-maneuver our four-ton armored truck into the concrete bridge abutment ahead.
"Return fire!" I ordered.
Abigail didn't hesitate. She rolled down the heavy ballistic window three inches—just enough to clear the muzzle of her weapon—slotted the barrel, and fired a rapid four-round burst into the radiator and front left tire of the lead SUV.
The vehicle bucked, its steering tire disintegrating in a cloud of smoking rubber. It violently swerved, clipped the bridge rail, and flipped four times across the median, erupting into a violent spray of broken glass and shredded sheet metal.
"Good shooting, sweetie," Frank growled, whipping the steering wheel to clear the debris.
"My mother taught me how to shoot before Marcus ever taught me how to walk on eggshells," Abigail replied, reloading her magazine with smooth, practiced efficiency.
The remaining two SUVs split—one riding our left blind spot, the other hanging back to allow a roof-mounted gunner to emerge from the sunroof with an anti-material rifle.
"Pinch them!" I said.
Frank slammed our brakes for half a second. The chasing SUV on our left surged ahead of us. Before its driver could react, Frank turned the steering wheel hard right, catching the enemy SUV’s rear quarter-panel with our hardened steel bullbar. The physics of heavy armor took over; the SUV spun wildly across our nose, careened off the guardrail, and plunged fifty feet down into the tidal marshes of the riverbed.
"One left!" Abigail called out.
The last SUV gunner opened fire. Heavy .50-caliber rounds hammered into our armored rear door, sending deafening metallic thuds echoing through the cabin. The reinforced glass cracked into spiderweb patterns, but held.
"Two hundred yards to the gate!" Frank shouted.
Ahead of us, what appeared to be an abandoned chain-link fence surrounded by rotting industrial shipping crates suddenly split down the center. Hydraulic motors hidden beneath the asphalt pulled the reinforced steel crash gates back into subterranean recesses.
As our Humvee rocketed through the perimeter, two automated 30mm remote weapon stations mounted atop shipping containers sprang to life. Their dual barrels tracked over our roof and opened fire on the pursuing vehicle behind us with a rhythmic, earth-shaking *thump-thump-thump*.
The final SUV was instantly torn in half by high-explosive incendiary rounds, bursting into a roaring wall of fire that illuminated the entire industrial yard.
The heavy steel gates slammed shut behind us, locking into place with the thunderous clank of twelve pneumatic deadbolts.
We slid to a halt inside a cavernous, dimly lit submarine maintenance drydock.
Standing on the tarmac was a squad of twenty operators in sterile, unflagged combat rigs, weapons lowered at the low-ready position. At their head stood a tall, silver-haired African American woman wearing the dress uniform of a Navy Vice Admiral, her chest adorned with rows of combat ribbons.
Vice Admiral Cynthia Cole. My oldest friend from the War College, and the one person in the Department of Defense Marcus Sterling’s money could never buy.
"Victoria," Cole said, stepping forward as I opened the Humvee door and stepped out onto the concrete. Her eyes dropped to Abigail, taking in her bruised face, her tactical harness, and the carbine strapped across her chest. Cole’s expression softened for a fraction of a second into deep, maternal sympathy before hardening into flint. "Abigail. Thank God you're breathing."
"We're breathing, Cynthia," I said, walking briskly toward the central command station set up inside the facility. "But the Directorate just took a shot at our grid. Who gave the submarine launch authorization?"
Cole gestured toward a massive bank of satellite monitors glowing in the center of the bay. "The submarine was the *Proteus*, a private black-budget research vessel commissioned ten years ago by the Sterling Maritime Consortium. But Marcus didn't have the codes. The launch command was relayed from an offshore deep-sea platform known as *Aegis-One*."
"Who signed the order?" I demanded.
Cole punched a key on the console. A single dossier materialized on the high-definition monitor.
The man staring back at us was seventy years old, with predatory pale eyes, thin silver hair combed straight back, and a face carved from aristocratic arrogance.
"Governor Harrison Sterling," Abigail whispered, her voice tightening with dread. "Marcus’s grandfather. The patriarch. Marcus told me he died eight years ago in Zurich."
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"He didn't die," Cole said coldly. "He faked his demise, retired into the shadows, and turned over the public front of the family empire to his son and grandson while he directed the global network. He is the Architect of the Sovereign Project."
***
