Chapter 30 - The San Francisco Hand-Off
By noon, our high-speed interceptor was back in its subterranean slip, replaced by a nondescript, matte-black Ford Explorer outfitted with heavy-duty suspension and civilian plates. We crossed the Sierra Nevada range under heavy cloud cover, descending into the damp, salt-scented air of the San Francisco Bay Area.
According to real-time satellite telemetry and encrypted police scanner intercepts, Viktor Petrov and his surviving mercenaries were being held temporarily at a high-security federal transit facility near the Port of Oakland, awaiting an unannounced pre-dawn helicopter transfer to a naval air station in San Diego.
We parked the SUV in a subterranean parking garage three blocks away from the transit facility. The rain had started up again, turning the asphalt into a slick, shimmering mirror reflecting the harsh amber glow of industrial streetlamps.
“The perimeter security is textbook federal marshals combined with private military contractors,” Ethan whispered, adjusting the optics of his long-range thermal monocular as we crouched behind a concrete maintenance pillar. “No standard local police. They’ve locked down a four-block radius under the guise of an anti-terrorism drill.”
“Because they know someone might try to silence Petrov before he talks,” I replied, checking the magazine of my suppressed Glock. “And they also know someone might try to spring him.”
“So, what’s the play, Commander? Are we going in through the loading docks or slipping past the electronic turnstiles?”
“Neither,” I said, looking up at the rain-slicked roof of the adjacent warehouse. “We let them think they’re running a secure transport. Then we become the transport.”
We moved with absolute silence, scaling the chain-link perimeter fence using tactical grappling assist lines. The compound was a labyrinth of corrugated steel shipping containers and reinforced concrete hangars. Inside the central transit bay, a heavy-duty armored prisoner transport van—its engine idling with a deep, low rumble—was surrounded by six heavily armed private contractors wearing unmarked tactical gear and night-vision goggles.
Through the reinforced glass of the control office, I could see Petrov. He was handcuffed to a steel bolted chair, his face bruised from our encounter on the yacht, arguing furiously with a man in a tailored civilian suit who reeked of Washington bureaucracy.
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“That’s Director Hayes,” Ethan muttered through the encrypted comms link in my ear, tracking the man’s facial recognition signature. “Former Deputy Director of Joint Intelligence. He’s the one who signed off on Project Ironclad five years ago.”
“Well,” I whispered, stepping out from the shadows of a container stack with my weapon raised. “It looks like it’s time for a family reunion.”
