Chapter 10
The amber LED on the detonator blinked with a steady, rhythmic pulse, casting a sinister orange glow across Ethan’s ruined face.
Jake felt the world tilt on its axis. The cold wind blowing off the lake suddenly carried no sound—only the hollow, deafening roar of his own heartbeat hammering against his temples.
"What did you say?" Jake whispered, his voice deadly quiet, his hand slowly rising to grab Ethan's collar.
"Our handler... Colonel Miller," Ethan rasped, his knees threatening to buckle under the freezing rain. "He knew you had a fallback protocol. He knew the Iron Kettle was your emergency extraction rally point from our days in the unit. He let this mercenary crew play the bait at the docks while his direct action team moved on the diner!"
Jake didn't waste a single breath on anger. He shoved Ethan toward the passenger side of the rusted forklift parked beside the silo. "Get in! Move!"
"Jake, it’s too late—"
"I SAID MOVE!" Jake roared, a sound torn straight from the bowels of hell.
He hot-wired the forklift's ignition with a twist of his knife, throwing the heavy industrial gears into forward. The machine lurched through the salt drifts, grinding out onto the empty river access road where Jake’s stolen Ford truck sat idling beneath the weeping willow trees.
He hurled Ethan into the passenger seat, threw himself behind the wheel, and slammed his boot against the accelerator. The tires screamed against the wet pavement, fishtailing wildly before gripping the asphalt and rocketing into the dark highway.
Two miles. Three minutes at full throttle.
"Call her," Ethan pleaded, his trembling hands fumbling with the broken glove box. "Jake, call Ava! Tell her to run!"
"Her phone is off to prevent cell-tower triangulation," Jake said, his hands locked around the steering wheel like iron vices, his hazel eyes fixed on the ribbon of dark road winding through the industrial wasteland. "She won't answer."
The speedometer needle trembled past eighty, the old V8 engine whining in agony as rain battered the cracked windshield.
Jake’s mind raced with brutal tactical clarity. If Miller’s team had reached the diner, Ava and Nora wouldn't be dead yet. Miller needed the decryption sequence. He needed Nora alive to verify the biometric key. They had a window—a paper-thin, razor-sharp window of minutes.
The truck crested the railway bridge overlooking the highway junction.
Down below, surrounded by a sea of cracked black asphalt, the neon sign of the Iron Kettle Diner buzzed through the fog, its red letters flickering: O-P-E-N.
The parking lot was dead quiet.
Parked beside the commercial dumpsters at the rear of the diner was the white utility truck where Jake had left Ava and Nora. The driver’s side door was hanging wide open, swinging gently in the wind.
Inside the diner, every single overhead light had been extinguished.
"No, no, no..." Ethan wept, pressing his bruised forehead against the glass.
Jake slammed the brakes, throwing the truck into a violent slide that brought them to a halt fifty yards out, completely hidden behind the rusted carcass of a grain trailer.
He didn't draw his carbine. He pulled out the night-vision monocular from his tactical pouch and brought it to his eye.
The green phosphor display illuminated the interior of the darkened diner.
Sitting in the center booth, bathed in the sickly green light, was Nora. Her pale-pink ribbon was slightly undone, her head resting against the cracked vinyl cushion, her cream bunny clutched tight against her chest.
Sitting across from her was a man in civilian clothes, drinking a cup of black coffee.
Colonel Miller.
Beside the booth, standing perfectly still with her hands tied behind her back and duct tape over her mouth, was Ava. Her eyes were wide with terror, staring at the floorboards where two armed men in plainclothes stood guard with suppressed rifles.
Suddenly, the burner phone in Jake’s pocket vibrated.
He didn't wait. He answered it, keeping the monocular locked on Miller’s face.
Through the receiver, Miller’s voice was warm, calm, and utterly devoid of malice.
"You made good time, Jake," Miller said smoothly, lifting his coffee mug toward the dark window, as if knowing precisely where Jake was hiding. "Bring Ethan inside. Let's finish the conversation we started four years ago."
Jake felt Ethan's hand grip his forearm. "Jake... don't go in there. He has a sniper on the water tower."
Jake lowered the monocular. He looked down at the silver dog tag still resting in the console between them, the microdot gleaming inside its hollow shell. Then he looked at Ethan.
"He doesn't have a sniper on the water tower," Jake whispered, his voice cold as a grave. "Because I didn't bury an empty casket four years ago, Ethan."
Ethan went completely still.
"What?" Ethan breathed.
Jake turned his head slowly, his eyes boring into his former teammate with lethal, terrifying suspicion.
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"I was the one who pulled the teeth from that body in the valley, Ethan," Jake said, his hand slowly resting on the grip of his combat knife. "The dental records matched you perfectly. Which means either someone fabricated your military file ten years before you joined the Teams... or you aren't Ethan Vance."
Inside the diner, the man sitting across from Nora slowly lowered his coffee cup, his phone still pressed to his ear, waiting for Jake’s answer.
