Chapter 9 - Into the Vault
The heavy explosive charge blew the rusted steel intake hatch off its hinges with a dull, concussive thump that rattled the foundations of the pier. Thick plumes of white smoke billowed out of the vertical shaft, smelling of stale ozone and river silt.
Without a word of hesitation, I clipped my rappelling harness to the descent line and dropped feet-first into the dark abyss.
The vertical drop was nearly three hundred feet. As I slid down the slick, condensation-covered cable, the ambient temperature dropped sharply, replaced by the sterile, humming chill of an active emergency power grid. The Syndicate’s secondary team hadn't just breached the facility—they had rerouted the auxiliary generators to power the high-security cryogenic containment pods housing the original Project Chimera synthesis samples.
My boots slammed down onto the grated metal flooring of Sub-Level Three.
Prescott landed beside me a second later, followed by Elena, who scrambled down the ladder with desperate agility.
“The primary core vault is fifty yards down this corridor,” Elena whispered, pressing her back against the damp concrete wall as she unholstered the Glock I had given her back at the estate. “Right past the secondary decontamination locks. But be careful—Vance’s tactical squad is heavily armed, and they’ve set up motion-activated claymores along the main approach.”
I raised my Sig, sweeping the beam of my weapon’s tactical light down the dimly lit, industrial hallway. The walls were lined with thick, fiber-optic cables and dripping water pipes. Red emergency strobe lights pulsed rhythmically overhead, casting an eerie, arterial glow across the corridor.
We moved forward in a tight, fluid stack, our boots silent against the metal grating.
As we rounded the final corner leading to the central vault doors, a blinding arc of laser tripwires crisscrossed the hallway.
“Hold,” I muttered, raising a hand.
Pinned to the reinforced titanium door of the core vault was a digital countdown timer, glowing with ruthless, glowing green numbers: 00:03:45.
Three minutes and forty-five seconds left before the thermal purge incinerated the entire subterranean complex—and severed the neural-medical link keeping my twins alive back at the estate.
“Boss,” Prescott hissed, pointing his rifle toward the shadows near the ceiling vents. “We’ve got movement. Heavy armor.”
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Before the warning could fully register, a heavy submachine gun burst erupted from an overhead maintenance catwalk, raining a storm of lead down upon us and forcing us to scatter behind thick concrete support pillars.
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