Chapter 8 - Cut Off from the Grid
The sudden loss of power was followed instantly by a low, mechanical hum from outside—the sound of an industrial-grade signal jammer cutting off all satellite and cellular frequencies within a half-mile radius.
"They're here," Miller muttered, his hand dropping instantly to the heavy revolver holstered beneath his jacket. He moved with practiced agility toward the front window, peering cautiously through the slats of the wooden blinds.
Outside, two unmarked black SUVs had silently rolled up the logging trail, their headlights extinguished, casting long, menacing shadows across the clearing. The doors opened simultaneously, and half a dozen tactical operatives in full combat gear spilled out into the mist, fanning out around the perimeter of the cabin with military precision.
"How did they find us this fast?" Anna gasped, pulling the sleeping Maya closer to the couch as she shielded the child with her body.
"The flash drive," Aaron said, his voice calm even as he furiously typed a final override command into the laptop battery backup. "It has a low-frequency tracking beacon embedded in the plastic casing. I should have checked the housing before we plugged it in."
David pulled the compact pistol he had taken from Cole earlier that afternoon, checking the magazine clip in the dim light of the fireplace embers. "Can you still get the files out to the federal server?"
"Upload is at eighty-four percent," Aaron said, watching the progress bar crawl across the glowing screen. "The jammer is slowing down the packet transmission, but if I can route it through a decentralized proxy network, it'll bypass their local signal block."
"You've got about thirty seconds before they breach the front door," Miller warned, raising his weapon as a heavy thud echoed against the exterior porch steps.
"Get Anna and Maya down into the root cellar beneath the floorboards," David instructed, his voice brooking no argument as he grabbed a shotgun from the rack near the fireplace. "Go. Now."
Anna didn't argue. She scooped Maya up into her arms—the little girl waking up with a start, whimpering softly in confusion—and scrambled toward the small pantry in the corner of the kitchen where the hidden trapdoor leading to the stone cellar was concealed.
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As the heavy wooden front door of the cabin splintered inward under the force of a battering ram, the first flashbang grenade came sailing through the shattered frame, detonating with a blinding white flash and a concussion wave that shook the cabin to its foundations.
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