Chapter 6 - Four Minutes to Zero
The ticking of the wall clock above the television sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. Four minutes. Two hundred and forty seconds to dismantle a life built on lies and prepare for a war that had been brewing for half a decade.
“Sarah, get Elena and Leo into the storm shelter under the back deck,” Mark commanded, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a military commander issuing field orders. “Take the white laundry basket with you. If Alvarez breaches the house, that drive goes into the incinerator pit at the bottom of the bunker. Do you understand?”
Sarah nodded sharply, her hesitation completely gone. She grabbed Elena by the arm, pulling the weeping woman toward the back patio door.
“Mark, come with us,” Elena sobbed, resisting for a fraction of a second. “We can run, we can take the car—!”
“There’s no car left to take, Elena,” Mark said gently, kissing her forehead before pushing her toward the hallway. “Vance disabled the ignition on our sedan the moment he parked outside. Go. Now.”
Elena scooped up little Leo into her arms, the toddler burying his face in her neck as Sarah hurried them toward the back of the house. The heavy wooden patio door slid shut, locking with a metallic click that echoed through the tense room.
Mark turned his attention back to Agent Vance. The federal agent was calmly unbuttoning his suit jacket to reveal a shoulder holster cradling a compact SIG Sauer pistol.
“You’ve still got some of your old reflexes, I see,” Vance remarked, pulling the firearm from its leather sheath and checking the magazine.
“They don’t write code like that out of muscle memory alone,” Mark replied, walking over to the coat rack near the front door. He reached behind the wooden paneling, pushing aside a loose piece of drywall he had subconsciously ignored for five years.
His fingers found the cold steel barrel of an MP5 submachine gun resting in a custom wall mount, accompanied by three loaded magazines.
Vance raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I always wondered where you hid the secondary stash after the safe-house relocation in Boston.”
“You didn't look hard enough,” Mark muttered, pulling the weapon free and slamming a magazine home with a crisp, mechanical snap. He checked the bolt, feeling the familiar, deadly weight of the firearm in his hands. The lingering haze in his mind cleared completely, replaced by the razor-sharp instincts of a soldier who had survived twenty black-ops deployments.
“Alvarez isn't coming alone,” Vance warned, walking over to peer through the blinds of the front window. “He’s got at least a three-car convoy. Local police won’t respond; his people hacked the dispatch frequencies twenty minutes ago.”
“Good,” Mark said coldly, walking toward the center of the living room. “That means we don’t have to worry about collateral paperwork.”
As if on cue, the sound of heavy tires screeching to a halt on the asphalt outside shattered the afternoon quiet. Car doors slammed in rapid succession—one, two, three distinct thuds of metal meeting frame. Heavy boots crunched violently across the gravel driveway.
Mark raised the barrel of the submachine gun toward the front door, his breathing slow, steady, and entirely controlled.
“They’re at the perimeter,” Vance whispered, raising his pistol and pressing his back against the wall beside the entryway.
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The front door didn't just knock this time. A heavy sledgehammer blow crashed against the wood, splintering the deadbolt and sending shards of oak flying across the living room rug.
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