Chapter 61 - The Cold War Protocol
The lights in the main shop flickered as a surge coursed through the municipal grid. The tactical team had cut the public power lines, forcing the facility onto Arthur's backup diesel generator—a massive, six-cylinder Detroit Diesel housed in the soundproof annex that roared into life with a throaty, rhythmic rumble.
The exterior door of Bay 1 shuddered.
*BOOM.*
A breaching charge blew the deadbolts out of the frame. The heavy steel door swung violently open against the wall, admitting a swirl of screaming snow and two black-clad figures with suppressed weapons raised.
"Clear left!" one shouted, moving systematically into the shadow of the Peterbilt semi-truck.
Before the second man could cross the threshold, a heavy shadow detached itself from the high storage racks near the rafters.
It was the man in the olive-drab uniform.
He dropped from the crossbeam twelve feet above, landing squarely across the shoulders of the second operative with bone-crushing force. The mercenary collapsed onto the concrete floor with a strangled gasp. The older man twisted the carbine from the mercenary’s hands, whipped the buttstock into the man’s temple, and turned the weapon on the first operative before the man could pivot.
*Pfft-pfft.* Two controlled bursts through the radiator grille of the Peterbilt. The lead operative stumbled, clutching his shoulder, and collapsed behind the front steering axle.
Jared stepped out from the tool bay, the Remington twelve-gauge leveled at the older man's chest.
"Who the hell are you?" Jared demanded, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through his veins. "Talk. Now."
The man turned slowly, lowering the captured carbine. In the harsh fluorescent light of the shop, Jared saw his face clearly for the first time. The man was in his late sixties, his face carved with deep, weather-worn scars, his gray hair cropped military-short. His eyes were identical to Arthur’s—the same icy, unflinching Vance blue.
"I’m Harlan," the man said, his voice like stones grinding in a riverbed. "Arthur was my older brother. And I’m the man who helped him carry the twelve million out of the terminal thirty years ago."
Jared’s breath hitched. "Arthur told me his brother died in Bosnia in ninety-four."
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"Arthur told the government that so they’d stop looking for me," Harlan replied, wiping oil from his cheek with the sleeve of his coat. "We split the consignment. I took the radio codes and vanished into the Yukon. Arthur kept the bullion and buried it beneath the spur. We had an agreement: if the transponder ever woke up, it meant Victor Graves had figured out the paper trail."
Harlan kicked the unconscious operative at his feet. "Your cousin Victor—Richard Caine—didn't come alone. He has six more men outside, and they brought a remote-detonation core. If they can’t break the vault, they’re going to blow the bedrock and drop this entire shop into the shaft."
