Chapter 12 - The Drone in the Dark
The small tactical drone hovered a mere ten feet above the rushing water, its twin rotors producing a high-pitched whine that bounced violently off the concrete walls of the culvert. A tiny red laser dot blinked into existence, painting a steady target directly on the center of Mark’s chest.
"Down!" Mark roared, shoving Sarah forcefully against the side of the culvert just as a sharp burst of suppressed automatic fire erupted from the drone's ventral mount.
Bullets chipped sparking fragments of concrete into the air right where they had been standing a second earlier. The acrid smell of ozone filled the narrow tube.
"It's an automated hunter-killer model!" Sarah screamed over the roar of the water and the whine of the rotors. "It's tied directly into the facility's central defense grid!"
Mark didn't hesitate. He planted his combat boots firmly against the slick floor, ignoring the freezing current swirling around his shins, raised his sidearm, and squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. The muzzle flash illuminated the dark tunnel in strobe-like bursts.
The first two rounds pinged harmlessly off the drone's carbon-fiber housing, but the third shot struck the optical sensor dead center. The machine let out a high-pitched electronic squeal, its rotors stuttering erratically as it spun out of control and slammed hard against the concrete ceiling before plunging directly into the rushing water below.
"Move! There will be more coming!" Mark yelled, grabbing Sarah by the arm and pulling her forward through the knee-deep current.
They sprinted through the remaining length of the drainage pipe, the faint glow of daylight finally appearing at the far end where the culvert opened up into the overgrown railway yard. Rain continued to pour down in sheets, turning the dirt and gravel into thick, swirling mud.
Mark pushed Sarah through the rusted opening of the drainage grate, tumbling out into the open air just as a pair of military-grade searchlights swept across the railway yard from the distant perimeter fence of Blackwood Ridge.
Crouching low behind a row of abandoned boxcars, Mark wiped the stinging rainwater from his eyes and scanned the horizon. Towering above the dense tree line a mile away was the brutalist concrete monolith of the Blackwood Ridge relay station, its perimeter surrounded by double-stacked razor wire and automated watchtowers.
"We need transportation and heavy gear," Mark said, his voice entirely devoid of panic, replaced by the cold, calculated focus of an infantry sergeant preparing for a terminal assault. "And we need it right now."
Sarah pointed toward a battered utility truck parked beside a rusted maintenance shed near the tracks.
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"The keys are usually left in the visor of that maintenance truck," Sarah whispered. "But Mark... once we cross that fence, there's no turning back. If we fail, nobody is coming to pull us out."
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