Chapter 36 - The Ghost in the Subsea Vault
The smell hit us immediately: ozone, burnt copper, and the unmistakable, metallic reek of fresh blood.
We moved down the catwalk in silence, our boots squeaking against the wet diamond-plate steel. The only sounds were the distant, rhythmic hum of the deep-sea pumps and the groan of the facility’s superstructure wrestling against the titanic weight of the ocean.
Around the first bend, we found the first body.
It was one of Vance’s mercenaries, clad in urban-camo winter fatigues, his tactical vest shredded by high-velocity flechette rounds. He was sprawled across an open electrical junction box, his eyes frozen wide in horror.
"Automated interior defenses," Clara whispered, stepping carefully over the pool of congealing blood. "Jonathan didn't just lock the doors; he set the security protocols to slaughter anyone who didn't broadcast the primary transponder frequency."
"Then why aren't the turrets firing at us?" I asked, looking up at the ceiling where robotic sensor pods hung like dormant wasps.
"Look at your ring," Clara murmured.
I glanced down. The tiny LED diode embedded on the inside curve of Jonathan’s wedding band was pulsing with a steady, rhythmic green light. The facility recognized me. It knew the bride had arrived.
We pushed deeper into the complex, reaching the main rotunda—a circular chamber fifty meters across, dominated by an enormous pillar of liquid nitrogen tanks that hissed continuously as they vented vapor into the ceiling scrubbers. In the center of the room sat the master console: a semicircular array of black glass monitors surrounding a biometric scanner and two physical cryptographic key slots.
Slumped across the main console was Viktor Vance.
A bullet wound was visible behind his left ear—not the ragged tear of a defensive turret, but the clean, surgical execution of a close-quarters shot.
Before Clara could raise her weapon, the overhead monitors flickered to life. The static cleared, replaced by a prerecorded, high-definition video loop.
Jonathan Duncan’s face filled the screens.
He looked thinner than when I had last seen him at Saint-Roch, his cheekbones sharper, his eyes burning with an unhinged, feverish luminescence. He wore a crisp white dress shirt, open at the collar, a glass of amber scotch resting in his hand.
*"Hello, Evelyn. Hello, Clara,"* Jonathan’s voice purred from the surround-sound speakers, ricocheting off the titanium walls with uncanny clarity. *"If you’re watching this, it means my dear mother managed to locate the only two women in the world capable of keeping her out of prison. It also means Viktor Vance tried to renegotiate his severance package. As you can see, I had the console’s passive defenses settle that account."*
The image shifted, showing a live digital countdown displayed beneath his face: **00:14:22... 00:14:21...**
*"Mother didn't tell you the whole truth, did she?"* the digital Jonathan continued, leaning toward the camera with a sadistic smile. *"She told you Protocol Zero would crash the markets. That was only half the truth. Protocol Zero doesn't just sell the sovereign debt—it transmits the complete archive of Victoria’s personal accounts directly to the Russian Federal Security Service and the United States Department of Justice. She didn't bring you here to save the world, girls. She brought you here to save her neck."*
May you like
Behind us, the heavy blast doors of the rotunda slammed shut with a deafening hydraulic roar.
---
