Chapter 13 - The North Gate Breach
The static on Miller’s radio died away into a heavy, ominous hiss. The tactical officers exchanged grim glances, their weapons raised as they formed a tight, defensive wedge around Clara, the baby, and Julian.
"Alpha Team, report," Miller spoke into his shoulder mic, his voice tight and controlled, though a bead of sweat tracked down his temple. "Alpha Team, do you copy?"
Silence was the only answer.
"They're gone," Julian said flatly, the weight of the situation crushing down on his chest. He looked at Clara, then down at the titanium thumb drive still clutched in her trembling hand. "Your husband didn't just come for a talk or a flash drive, Clara. He came to wipe the board clean."
"If Alpha Team is down, we have less than two minutes before Marcus's extraction unit breaches the rear patio," Miller said, his eyes scanning the dark kitchen exits. He holstered his sidearm for a split second to pull a secure satellite phone from his tactical vest. "Command center, this is Miller. Code Black at the Vance residence. Requesting immediate air extraction—"
The satellite phone in Miller’s hand suddenly emitted a shrill, high-pitched squeal, the screen melting into a chaotic swirl of green static before going completely dead. The battery compartment hissed softly, emitting a faint curl of grey smoke.
Miller dropped the smoking device onto the marble counter with a curse. "EMP pulse. He’s got a localized localized localized electromagnetic generator mounted on a drone outside."
"Which means all our communications are dead," Julian said, his mind racing through the layout of the house. "No radios, no cell service, no backup."
"Not necessarily," Clara said, her voice cutting through the panic with unexpected clarity. She looked down at the titanium drive in her hand. "The drive isn't just a storage unit. It’s an active encryption key that broadcasts a distress beacon directly to the Department of Justice’s primary server in Quantico the moment it's plugged into an offline terminal."
Miller stared at her, his eyes narrowing. "You had a dead man's switch built into the hardware?"
"Marcus taught me how to survive paranoid syndicates," Clara replied bitterly, lifting her chin. "He just forgot that students eventually learn how to turn the weapons back on their masters."
Before Miller could respond, the sliding glass patio doors at the back of the kitchen shattered in a shower of glittering glass shards. The cold night air rushed into the warm room, carrying the deep, heavy thrum of a helicopter hovering just above the backyard lawn, its rotor wash whipping the kitchen curtains into a frenzy.
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Through the broken glass, two silhouetted figures in tactical gear stepped across the threshold, their rifle barrels glinting menacingly in the dim red glow of the smart-home display.
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