Chapter 7 - The Blind Spot
"Hit the dirt!" I roared, tackling Thomas backward into the muddy ditch just as a blistering wall of heavy machine-gun fire shredded the concrete wall inches above our heads.
Chunks of masonry rained down on us like shrapnel. The automated turret on the roof was locked onto our thermal signature, tracking every micro-movement through the downpour. Standard evasion tactics wouldn't work; the targeting system was running on advanced predictive AI algorithms developed under Project Janus.
"It's a fixed-arc acoustic sensor!" Thomas yelled over the deafening clatter of rounds impacting the steel culvert. "It's firing on audio-metric feedback from our heartbeats and boots!"
"Then we change the frequency," I replied, pulling a heavy lithium battery pack from my tactical vest.
Without hesitation, I ripped open the waterproof casing and hurled the battery toward a rusted transformer box ten yards to our right. The moment it hit the metal housing, it short-circuited in a shower of blue sparks and high-voltage feedback, temporarily blinding the thermal optics and throwing the rooftop turret into a wild, sweeping loop of erratic fire.
"Now! Move!" I shouted.
We sprang from the ditch, sprinting in a zigzag pattern across the open courtyard and diving through a shattered ground-floor loading bay window just as the turret re-calibrated and chewed the asphalt where we had been standing a second before.
Inside the mill, the air was thick with the copper stench of fresh blood and burnt gunpowder. We swept through the cavernous packing floor, our boots crunching on broken glass. Three of our intelligence analysts lay motionless against the concrete pillars, zip-tied and executed with surgical precision.
Thomas knelt beside the lead analyst, shaking his head grimly. "They were tortured for the encryption keys, Daniel. They didn't break easily, but they broke."
I moved toward the steel staircase leading to the second-floor office, my eyes locked on the ceiling where the microwave transmitter hummed with a low, malevolent vibration. Clara's ledger was heavy in my tactical pocket, but the real prize—the master cryptographic keys to Project Janus—was sitting in that upstairs room, broadcasting our destruction to the world.
As I placed my hand on the cold iron handrail, a slow, rhythmic clapping echoed from the top of the stairs.
"Impressive, Carter," a smooth, deep voice called down from the shadows. "I taught you well at Dam Neck, but you always lacked the killer instinct when it mattered most."
A figure stepped out from the dim landing, illuminated by the flashing red status light of the broadcast terminal. It wasn't Director Sterling. It was a man I had buried with full military honors five years ago in Arlington.
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Major David Vance stood at the top of the stairs, wearing an immaculate black tactical turtleneck, a pristine scar running down his cheek, and a suppressed pistol aimed squarely between my eyes.
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