Chapter 41 - Descent into the Alps
The private jet touched down on a private airstrip near Basel under the cover of a freezing, mist-laden Alpine drizzle. The air smelled of wet pine and distant snowmelt—a sharp, crisp contrast to the humid tension of the cabin.
Waiting for us on the tarmac was an old contact of mine: Julian Moreau, a former French intelligence operative turned independent broker who owed me a debt from our joint counter-terrorism operations in the Balkans.
Julian stood beside a rugged, matte-black Mercedes G-Wagon with diplomatic plates, smoking a thin cigar as we descended the aircraft stairs.
“Avery,” Julian greeted with a wry smile, tossing away his cigarette as he approached. “When your encrypted ping came through, I thought either you were finally ready to retire to a vineyard, or you were about to start a war with the Swiss government. Judging by the tactical vest under your coat, I’m guessing it’s the latter.”
“Let’s go with a specialized extraction and data-retrieval mission, Julian,” I replied, shaking his hand firmly as Ethan and Sarah loaded our gear into the back of the SUV. “We need transport into the Bernese Oberland, past the private security checkpoints surrounding Aegis’s subterranean vault.”
Julian’s smile faded, replaced by a look of sober caution. “You picked the hardest target in Europe, my friend. The Vault of the Black Forest isn’t just guarded by men with guns. They have motion-activated thermal turrets, microwave perimeter beams, and a private garrison of ex-foreign legionnaires who take orders only from the Aegis board of directors.”
“Which is why we aren’t walking through the front gate,” Ethan said, pulling up a digital topographical map on his tactical pad as we climbed into the vehicle. “According to the geological survey data Sarah pulled from the Swiss ministry of public works, there’s an abandoned service tunnel running from an old hydroelectric dam three miles down the valley directly into the lower cooling levels of the vault.”
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Julian raised an eyebrow, climbing into the driver’s seat and throwing the SUV into drive. “An old maintenance shaft? It was sealed off forty years ago after a structural collapse. The locals say the lower levels are flooded with freezing runoff from the glacier.”
“Then we’ll bring scuba gear,” I said calmly, resting my hand on the textured grip of my Sig Sauer. “Let’s move.”
