After spending $110,000 supporting my family, I returned from a 21-day Navy mission to find my father giving my $4 million Lake Tahoe villa to my sister—but one message from my attorney was about to turn their champagne celebration into a nightmare. / Chapter 178 / 181

Chapter 178 - The Subterranean Countdown

"Miller!" I shouted, waving the Master Chief over as the rotor blades beat the cold mountain air into a freezing frenzy.

"Commander Vance!" Miller yelled, shifting his rifle to a low ready position. "Perimeter secure. Local authorities have cordoned Highway 89. We’ve got the old man. What’s your play on this console?"

"The console is a decoy trigger," I said, pointing toward the submerged foundation pillars beneath the eastern terrace. "The pulse driver is anchored to the structural shelf seventy feet down in the old Cold War submarine drydock. If that acoustic transducer cycles to full resonance, the entire bedrock shelf shears away."

Miller cursed under his breath, looking down into the deep, ink-black water of Lake Tahoe. "We don't have deep-submergence gear on these birds, Marcus. We packed for a raid on dry land, not an underwater salvage run."

"I don't need a salvage rig," I said, stripping off my tactical vest and combat jacket. "Whispering Pines was built with an auxiliary rebreather station in the boatmaster's locker. When I remodeled the property four years ago—using the money Victor claimed I squandered—I maintained the military-grade hyperbaric locker."

Victor sneered from the deck where Miller’s men held him flat. "You don't know the failsafe frequency, Marcus! Clara holds the second key in her cell! The syndicate ensured redundancy!"

I walked over to where my father lay pinned. I crouched down until my face was inches from his.

"Clara traded that frequency twenty minutes ago to the U.S. Attorney in Reno for a transfer out of solitary confinement," I said coldly.

Victor’s sneer instantly dissolved into a look of absolute horror. "She... she wouldn't. She’s my daughter!"

"She's *your* daughter, Victor. That means she sells out whoever is standing closest when the fire starts," I told him, standing up. "Take him to the secondary bird. Strip his comms and seal him in transport lock."

"Aye, Commander," Miller barked.

I ran down the exterior stone staircase leading toward the boathouse slip. The lake water was churning violently now, small concentric ripples rising from the lakebed—the early harmonic tremors of the cavitation driver warming up. On my tactical wrist unit, the red countdown read: *01:52... 01:51...*

I slammed through the reinforced door of the private boathouse. The smell of cedar, motor oil, and ancient pine greeted me. Behind a false tool cabinet along the western wall sat the heavy steel door of the dive locker.

I keyed my biometric thumbprint into the lock. The door hissed open on pneumatic hinges. Inside hung a sleek Draeger LAR VII closed-circuit rebreather and a full-face combat dive mask.

I checked the O2 cylinder: 200 bar. Full charge.

I strapped the rebreather to my chest, clamped the bite-mouthpiece into my jaw, pulled the low-profile mask over my eyes, and grabbed a titanium cutting torch and my combat knife from the workbench rack.

The concrete floor beneath my boots vibrated with a deep, gut-churning rumble.