Chapter 146 - The Biometric Ledger
Two mercenaries rushed the tactical terminal on the overturned patio table, attempting to sever its data cables and haul it into the helicopter.
I leaned out from behind the granite hearth, sighted down the holographic optic, and fired twice. Both men collapsed across the table, their weight violently dragging the terminal off the edge. The ruggedized unit slammed into the snow, its screen still glowing with amber command lines:
`BIOMETRIC ANOMALY DETECTED.`
`MATCH RATE: 51.4% (SUBJECT: CLARA CALDWELL).`
`AUTHORIZATION LEVEL: INSUFFICIENT.`
`PRIMARY PROTOCOL REQUIRES MASTER KEY: MARCUS CALDWELL (NAVSEA SPEC-OP / CARRIER CODE 99-DELTA).`
Vance saw the screen from the helicopter ramp. His face twisted in animal rage.
"Kill the Commander!" he screamed over the turbine whine. "Take his head! We only need his eye for the retina scan! Open fire!"
The remaining eight contractors converged on my position, laying down a suppressing hail of automatic fire that pulverized the remaining stone of the fireplace. Chunks of rock battered my back and shoulders. I checked my magazine—twelve rounds left in the primary mag, two spares on my belt.
Through the chaos, I saw Arthur scramble on his hands and knees toward the dropped terminal.
"I can sign it!" Arthur babbled insanely, his mind completely unhinged by the collapse of his delusions. "I'm the patriarch! I'm Arthur Caldwell! I have power of attorney! Look at the documents! Look at the trust!"
"Arthur, get down!" I roared.
A stray burst of mercenary fire stitched across the snow right in front of him. A 7.62 round caught Arthur in the right thigh. He screamed, collapsing face-first into the freezing slush, his hands desperately clawing at the glowing amber screen of the terminal.
His bleeding hand slammed directly onto the biometric scanner glass.
A high-pitched tone echoed from the terminal's internal speakers, cutting through the gunfire:
`UNAUTHORIZED BIOMETRIC INPUT.`
`CROSS-REFERENCING: ARTHUR CALDWELL.`
`STATUS: EXCLUDED ASSET / DEBTOR PROFILE.`
`AUTOMATED DEFENSE PROTOCOL WHISPERING PINES: ACTIVATED.`
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Beneath the manicured lawn, hidden pneumatic hatches hissed open. Four automated perimeter defense sentry turrets—installed by Eleanor under the guise of an irrigation system when the villa was constructed—rose from the snow, their triple-barrel rotary guns spinning up with an ominous, rising whine.
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