Chapter 9
The shattered windshield of the transport spider-webbed as a hail of concentrated rifle fire battered the reinforced glass.
“Out! Out of the vehicle now!” the marshal roared, kicking open the side door and returning fire with his service pistol to buy them a few precious seconds of cover.
Marcus hoisted the medical cot holding the sleeping Lily, shoving it toward Clara, while Thomas scooped Leo up into his arms. They scrambled out of the smoking transport, diving headfirst behind a thick concrete barrier at the edge of the Route 9 overpass as bullets sparked dangerously close to their boots.
“Keep your heads down!” Marcus yelled, his tailored suit now torn and stained with soot and motor oil.
Across the asphalt clearing, the leader of the tactical hit squad stepped forward, lowering his assault rifle. He wore a heavy wool coat over his tactical vest, his face obscured by a dark balaclava, but his voice carried a chilling, melodic cruelty that cut through the gunfire.
“Thomas Vance! It’s been a long three years, old friend,” the man called out, pacing slowly toward the concrete barrier. “Hand over the encryption drive and the boy, and we might let the rest of your little family walk away from this bridge.”
Thomas pushed Leo down behind the concrete, cocking his head over the edge to shout back.
“Go to hell, Viktor! You’ll never see that ledger!”
Viktor chuckled darkly, signaling two of his men to flank the left side of the overpass.
“You think your brother’s wealth or your little viral stunt on the internet can save you now, Thomas? No one knows where you are out here. The signal jammers we deployed are blocking all cellular transmission within a five-mile radius.”
Clara clutched her smartphone in despair. The screen was completely dead—no service, no data, no connection to the millions of followers who had been watching their story unfold just twenty minutes ago.
“They cut our lifeline,” Clara whispered, looking down at Lily, who stirred restlessly on the medical cot, her fever spiking again.
Marcus tapped furiously on his satellite-linked laptop, his face lighting up with a sudden, desperate realization.
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“They jammed the cellular frequencies, yes,” Marcus muttered quietly to himself, a grim smile touching the corner of his mouth. “But they didn't jam the short-range emergency broadcast frequency I installed in my own corporate network.”
With trembling fingers, Marcus hit execute on a line of raw code, transmitting an encrypted distress beacon out into the dark night sky.
