Chapter 56
The Leviathan surfaced silently in an abandoned, subterranean dock on the edge of Lake Michigan. The transition from the freezing ocean to the humid, neon-lit belly of Chicago was jarring.
Cole, Donovan, and Ava moved through the shadows of the dock, escorted by Silas. Nora was fast asleep against Cole’s chest, oblivious to the heavily armed syndicate enforcers flanking them.
"The Boss has secured a safehouse in the Gold Coast for the women," Silas rumbled, opening the heavy doors of a waiting armored SUV. "It's completely off the books. Ten guards, perimeter alarms, and a direct line to Clara."
Cole helped Ava inside, gently laying Nora onto the plush leather seats.
"I have to go, Ava," Cole whispered, crouching by the open door. "I have to finish this."
Ava looked at him, her hazel eyes fierce and unyielding. She didn't cry. She reached out, grabbing the collar of his tactical shirt and pulling him into a fierce, desperate kiss.
"Burn the mountain down, Jake," Ava commanded softly, using his real name, anchoring him to the man he truly was. "And come back to us."
"I will," Cole promised.
He closed the door, watching the SUV disappear into the city night. He turned back to Silas.
"Let's go to work," Cole said.
Seventy-two hours later.
The opulent ballroom of a luxury hotel in Manhattan was transformed into a high-stakes, highly illegal auction. Vincent Moretti stood at the podium, projecting the aura of a ruthless, untouchable King. The room was filled with proxy actors hired by the syndicate, posing as international arms dealers and oligarchs.
Resting on a velvet pedestal in the center of the room was a fake, glowing green vial.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Vincent announced, his voice echoing over the quiet murmur of the crowd. "We are gathered tonight to bid on the ultimate asset. The key to the God's Eye."
As he spoke, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom blew inward with a deafening crash.
Dozens of elite, heavily armored operatives poured into the room, their suppressed weapons raised. They wore the sleek, unmarked gray uniforms of Director Vance’s loyalist faction.
"Nobody move!" the lead operative roared.
Vincent didn't flinch. He smiled—a cold, terrifying expression.
The "buyers" in the room didn't cower. They drew heavy, concealed weapons from beneath their tuxedos. The Moretti ghost operatives had laid a flawless trap.
The ballroom erupted into chaotic, deafening violence. The distraction had successfully commenced.
Two hundred miles away, nestled in the dense, silent forests of Pennsylvania, Raven Rock Mountain Complex appeared impenetrable.
But deep in the woods, Cole and Donovan lay prone in the wet grass, wearing advanced thermal-dampening cloaks.
"Overwatch, status," Cole whispered into his encrypted comms.
"The New York diversion is a massive success," Sarah reported from her secure terminal. "Vance mobilized eighty percent of the mountain's tactical garrison to secure the fake vial. The perimeter guard is running on a skeleton crew."
"We are moving," Cole said.
They didn't attempt to breach the main blast doors. Cole had studied the decades-old architectural blueprints Sarah had unearthed.
"The mountain is naturally ventilated through a series of deep, subterranean air shafts," Cole explained to Donovan, pointing to a heavily grated intake pipe hidden amidst a rocky outcropping. "It’s a sheer drop of three hundred feet, directly into the secondary mechanical level."
"I hate heights," Donovan grunted, checking her rappelling harness.
"Don't look down," Cole advised.
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They applied silent, thermal cutting paste to the iron grate. It melted away instantly. They secured their lines and descended into the pitch-black, echoing abyss of the mountain.
The ghost had entered the fortress.
