Chapter 175 - The Terminal in the Bedrock
Instead of taking the bait, I retreated into the shattered interior of the villa.
The center platform had finally reached its apex, locking into the reinforced floor frame with a heavy hydraulic thunk. What stood in the middle of my living room was not a missile, but a pressurized tactical command module—a hardened steel capsule housing an array of glowing server racks, satellite communications uplinks, and a central biometric console featuring dual launch-key receptacles.
The digital display on the console blinked in steady, crimson pulses:
`PROJECT TARTARUS: PHASE THREE.`
`SYSTEM: WESTERN SEABOARD SEISMIC INTERCONNECT.`
`STATUS: ARMED / AWAITING SECONDARY BIOMETRIC CLEARANCE.`
I stepped toward the console, my boots crunching on broken glass. Beside the terminal was an old framed photograph of my father in his dress whites, shaking hands with a high-ranking foreign defense attache dated 1994. Underneath the glass frame was an etched brass plate: *Absolute Ownership Belongs to the Bold.*
He had never intended to give this house to Clara. He had used her greed as a distraction. He knew that if I found out Clara had stolen the estate, my immediate reaction would be to sue, fight, and involve the courts—creating months of procedural chaos that would keep federal investigators away from Whispering Pines while he carried out his offshore treason. Clara was never his heir. She was his human shield.
Suddenly, a red laser point danced across the metal casing of the terminal.
I ducked behind the server bank as a high-caliber round slammed into the display console, showering sparks and shattered liquid crystal across the floor.
Bootsteps approached rapidly from the terrace. Two contractors crossed the threshold, their weapons raised in a low-ready stance, sweeping the room.
I didn't wait for them to clear the corner. I drove my shoulder into the mobile server rack, shoving its three-hundred-pound weight directly into the lead operative. The impact threw him off balance, sending him crashing into his squadmate. Before either could recover, I stepped forward and fired three rapid rounds into their center plates, dropping them to the hardwood floor.
Outside, the heavy rumble of the stealth craft’s diesel auxiliary engines surged.
A shadow fell across the shattered glass doorway.
Standing on the threshold was not another faceless contractor.
It was Victor Vance. He wore an immaculate naval bridge coat stripped of rank insignia, his face weathered, lined with scars, and eyes as cold as the bottom of the lake. In his right hand, he held a sidearm; in his left, he held an identical biometric authorization cylinder.
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"You always were too stubborn for your own good, Marcus," Victor said softly, pointing his pistol directly at my chest. "You spent $110,000 trying to save a family that despised you. Did you really think you could buy your way out of blood?"
***
