Chapter 4 - The Ambush at the Gate
The rear door of the Suburban blew outward with a deafening crash as a heavy-caliber round punched straight through the armor plating, showering the interior with hot shrapnel and fiberglass dust.
"Get down!" Vance roared, instinct taking over as he grabbed my shoulder and shoved me toward the floorboard.
Adrenaline surged through my veins, instantly washing away the dull ache in my leg. Years of tactical muscle memory took over. I kicked my duffel open, my hand closing around the suppressed SIG Sauer P320 I’d packed in my false bottom—kept illegally, but habits die hard when you live in a world governed by shadows.
"They bypassed the outer perimeter," I shouted over the rattling roar of automatic gunfire hammering the vehicle's exterior. Glass shattered in a cascading wave of glittering shards as the side windows were systematically shredded.
Through the ruined window, I saw two matte-black tactical vans slam to a halt thirty feet away, doors sliding open to reveal a half-dozen heavily armed operators in unmarked black combat gear. No insignia. No patches. Professional, fast, and moving with terrifying discipline.
"They aren't local law enforcement," Vance said, drawing his service pistol with a hand that didn't shake. "They're private contractors. Or deep-black state security."
"They're here for the key," I said, checking the magazine of my sidearm. Seven rounds left. Not nearly enough.
"Mercer, if they take you, the encryption lattice goes live," Vance warned, his eyes burning with cold resolve. "We burn the key before we let them walk."
"I'm not burning anything until I find out who's pulling the strings," I replied.
I kicked the opposite door open, the heavy steel panel swinging wide just as a burst of suppressed fire chewed up the asphalt inches from my boot. Dropping low into a combat roll, I cleared the threshold of the vehicle, landing hard on the wet concrete. The impact sent a sharp, agonizing jolt up my injured left leg, but I ignored the pain, pushing off my good foot and diving behind the reinforced concrete barrier of the perimeter gate.
Two operators in black gear advanced methodically toward the vehicle, their rifle barrels sweeping the sector with ruthless efficiency. The lead man stepped around the hood of our smoking Suburban, eyes scanning the wreckage.
I didn't hesitate. Two controlled shots rang out through my suppressor—*thip, thip*—and the operator crumpled, dropping his rifle as he hit the tarmac.
His partner instantly pivoted, bringing his weapon up to bear on my position. Before he could squeeze the trigger, a blinding flash erupted from the direction of the hangar doors.
Commander Ryan Hayes sprinted out of the shadows, firing a suppressed carbine with lethal accuracy. The second operator staggered backward and went down hard.
"Dan!" Hayes yelled, diving behind the concrete barrier beside me, his chest heaving. "Are you hit?"
"I'm functional!" I shouted back, peering over the edge of the barrier. More black vans were swarming through the hangar gates, their headlights sweeping across the tarmac like searching fingers. "How many more of them are out there?"
"A platoon at least!" Hayes yelled, reloading his carbine with practiced speed. "The entire base security grid has been locked down by an override code. We're completely cut off!"
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Before I could answer, a piercing alarm shrieked across the airfield overhead, and a blinding spotlight clicked on from the top of the control tower, illuminating our position in stark, unforgiving white.
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