Chapter 84 - The Iron Siphon
The storm broke over the Blue Ridge Mountains like an artillery barrage.
Through the forward cockpit windows of the Osprey, lightning tore across the sky in jagged, violet veins, illuminating the rolling black canopy of the hardwood forests below. Blackwood Hall was an antebellum monstrosity—a sprawling brick-and-limestone mansion perched on a secluded ridge, surrounded by three hundred acres of old-growth timber, high wrought-iron fencing, and high-gain satellite dishes disguised as weather radomes.
I stood by the rear ramp, checking the charging handle on my suppressed carbine. Behind me stood six operators from my personal tactical unit, Task Force Aegis. Men and women I had bled with in the Hindu Kush, the Horn of Africa, and the South China Sea. They didn't ask questions about bloodlines or family treason. They saw a target, and they saw a commander who had never led them wrong.
"Ramp dropping in thirty seconds," the crew chief called out over the intercom. "Winds at the LZ are thirty knots, gusting forty-five. We're coming in low over the tree line."
I glanced at the corner of the cabin. Jake was strapped into a jump seat, wearing a zip-tied tactical helmet and an oversized Kevlar vest we had forced him into. He looked like a child playing dress-up, his eyes wide and hollow.
"Why am I coming?" Jake begged, his voice shaking against the roar of the engines. "Elena, please... I’m not a fighter. You know I’m not. Let me stay on the plane."
"The biometric checkpoints inside the mansion's subterranean safe room were keyed to your DNA, Jake," I said, pulling my balaclava down over my face. "Eleanor made sure you were the only one who could physically open the master vault. She wanted you there so you could take the fall when it was breached. You're going to open that door for me."
"And if she shoots me?"
"Then at least you'll die doing something useful for your country," I replied without looking back.
The hydraulic ramp lowered with a mechanical whine, flooding the cabin with the roar of the mountain storm and freezing horizontal rain.
Down below, the grounds of Blackwood Hall were crawling with shadows. Infrared strobes blinked from the tree lines—mercenaries hired through dummy LLCs, moving in tactical fire teams around the perimeter. High-caliber technical trucks were stationed at the gatehouses, their turret-mounted machine guns aimed out toward the winding access road.
They were expecting an assault from the road. They were expecting the FBI or the National Guard.
They were not expecting an Osprey to drop out of the storm directly into the manicured center of Eleanor's rear terrace.
"Green light! Go, go, go!" Vance shouted.
I leaped from the ramp, hitting the slick, manicured lawn in a low combat roll. The mud absorbed the impact, and within a heartbeat, my rifle was up, the illuminated reticle of my optic locking onto the first sentry guarding the glass solarium doors.
*Thump-thump.*
The suppressed rounds were nearly drowned out by the thunder overhead. The sentry dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Behind me, my operators fanned out with surgical, terrifying precision. Muzzle flashes flickered in the rain like strobe lights. No shouting. No warnings. Every shot was lethal, precise, and calculated to eliminate the perimeter before the alarm could cascade through the estate's internal networks.
May you like
"Perimeter breached," I whispered into my comms. "Jake, move!"
Two operators dragged Jake across the lawn by his shoulders, his boots sliding through the shredded turf. We reached the stone steps of the solarium just as the main siren across the estate finally wailed into life—a shrill, electronic scream that tore the mountain night in two.
