Chapter 3 - Blood in the Water
The beam of my tactical flashlight cut through the damp, swirling mist of the subbasement corridor, illuminating the heavy steel access hatch that stood slightly ajar. The rhythmic hum of the high-voltage municipal transformer vibrated through the soles of my boots, a low, thrumming bassline that made my teeth ache.
I flattened my back against the cold concrete wall, holding my breath. The silence down here was absolute, save for the steady drip-drip-drip of condensation leaking from an overhead cast-iron pipe.
I raised my Glock, keeping my sights leveled dead ahead as I inched toward the hatch. The heavy metal door had been forced open; the electronic keypad lock was dangling by a tangle of fried, smoking copper wires. Someone hadn't just used an override code—they had fried the system with a localized electromagnetic pulse charge to ensure the silent alarms never reached the precinct above.
"FBI! Don't move!" I shouted into the cavernous darkness beyond the hatch, my voice echoing off the curved concrete walls.
No response. Just the hum of the transformer and the acrid smell of burnt ozone.
I slipped through the narrow opening, my tactical vest scraping against the jagged edges of the warped steel frame. I entered the primary municipal junction chamber—a massive, vaulted concrete vault housing the main fiber-optic trunk lines and power feeds for the entire downtown sector. Rows of towering server racks stretched out into the gloom, their status lights blinking in a frantic sequence of amber and red.
Something was wrong. The server racks weren't just operating; they were overloading. A high-pitched squeal emanated from the central mainframe console near the back wall.
I crept forward, my boots making a soft squelching sound against a thin layer of oily water pooling on the floor. I cleared the corner of the third server rack, keeping my weapon raised.
And then I saw him.
A man in a dark gray municipal maintenance jumpsuit was slumped forward over the master console, his hands resting limply on the illuminated keyboard. Wires snaked out from a heavy tactical briefcase on the floor, plugging directly into the mainframe's diagnostic port.
"Don't move your hands," I ordered crisply, closing the distance while maintaining tactical cover behind a reinforced steel pillar. "Slowly turn around, face the rack, and put your hands behind your head."
The figure didn't move. The amber lights from the console cast long, distorted shadows across his face.
"I said, turn around!" I repeated, stepping out from behind the pillar, my finger resting lightly on the trigger guard.
Slowly, the man tilted his head back. But it wasn't Viktor Vance.
It was Leo Mercer—Ethan’s cousin. And his eyes weren't looking at me; they were staring blankly up at the ceiling, glassy and unblinking. A dark, jagged crimson stain saturated the front of his gray jumpsuit, spreading rapidly across his chest from a deep, brutal puncture wound beneath his ribs.
Before my brain could fully process the tactical implications, a cold piece of steel pressed firmly against the back of my neck.
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"Drop the weapon, Special Agent Brooks," a low, gravelly voice whispered right beside my ear, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and gun oil. "Or your brains will be painting these server racks before you can blink."
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