Chapter 32 - Breaching the Surface
The concussion shook the bedrock beneath my boots, sending a shower of pulverized drywall down like gray snow through the exposed floor grating. Above me, the floor-to-ceiling glass panels of the living room—the architectural centerpiece of my four-million-dollar home—rained into the freezing waters of Lake Tahoe in a thunderous avalanche.
"Don't go up," Marcus’s voice had warned. But instinct, honed through seven years of naval deployment and combat logistics under fire, overruled contemplation.
I racked the slide of my Sig Sauer, checked the chamber, and lunged for the tactical locker bolted beside the server bay. Inside rested my survival kit: two spare fifteen-round magazines, a thermal optic monocular, and a field radio programmed with Navy tactical bands. I clipped the radio to my tactical harness, jammed the magazines into my belt, and sprinted for the spiral metal staircase leading out of the lower bunker.
Smoke rolled thick across the upper mezzanine. The sharp, biting odor of maritime C4 hung heavy in the pine-scented air. Through the blown-out eastern facade of the estate, the icy wind off the Sierra Nevada roared into the home, whipping linen curtains into frenzied white banners.
I dropped into a low crouch behind the granite island where, only days earlier, my father had uncorked vintage Dom Pérignon to celebrate disinheriting me.
Down on the private dock, three combat divers clad in matte-black drysuits were hauling themselves over the splintered timber. Their closed-circuit rebreathers hissed softly against the rhythm of the waves. No exhaust bubbles. No insignia. Only the lethal precision of tier-one maritime operators.
One of them carried a submachine gun fitted with an oversized suppressor; the other two were securing heavy pelican cases onto the shoreline. They weren’t here for the real estate. They were here for whatever my father had hidden beneath the floorboards—the asset Marcus warned Charles had failed to secure.
I brought my weapon up, resting the frame against the edge of the granite counter.
"Step away from the threshold!" I barked, projecting my voice with parade-ground authority.
The lead diver didn't flinch. He raised his suppressed carbine toward the window line in a fluid, practiced motion.
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Two 9mm subsonic rounds cracked through the timber uprights four inches from my cheek. I squeezed my trigger twice, double-tapping the diver's chest plate. The rounds sparked harmlessly against ceramic body armor, knocking him back a half-step before he steadied his aim.
They weren't local mercenaries. This was active-duty combat equipment. The Navy hadn't just abandoned Marcus; someone inside the Pentagon was actively running an unsanctioned kill team on American soil.
