Chapter 55 - The High Ridge of Katahdin
The helicopter carved through the turbulent northern air, skimming low over the endless carpet of black pine that stretched toward the Canadian border. Outside the scratched plexiglass windows, the jagged spine of the mountains rose like broken teeth against the graying dawn.
Inside the cabin, Julian worked with frantic speed. He had connected the silver drive to an isolated military-grade deck, analyzing the cascading lines of data Arthur had preserved.
"It’s all here," Julian whispered, scrolling through decades of classified financial movements. "The shell companies that funded the wedding in Manhattan. The payments to the state prosecutors who silenced Arthur’s whistleblowers. Even the medical records from the private facility where Victoria faked her own suicide."
"My sister," I said, the thought of Sarah hitting me like a physical blow. "Did she know? Did Sarah know about Victoria?"
Julian paused, his fingers resting on the trackpad. He looked at me with an expression of quiet pity.
"Sarah was a pawn, Claire. The Consortium picked your sister because of her proximity to you and Lily. They needed to keep Arthur’s real heirs under constant surveillance. The lavish lifestyle, the billionaire husband—it was all a gilded cage designed to keep you from ever looking too closely into what Arthur left behind."
A cold rage settled into my chest, chasing away the chill of the Atlantic brine. My sister had sold out our family for jewels and socialite status, completely blind to the fact that the monsters she bowed to were using her as a human tripwire.
"We’re entering Katahdin airspace," the pilot called back over the intercom. "I’m picking up multiple thermal signatures at the summit observatory. They’ve already deployed an armed perimeter. We can’t land on the pad."
"Drop us on the eastern saddle," Julian ordered immediately, racking the slide of an assault rifle and handing me a compact, rugged sidearm. "Can you use this?"
I looked down at the weapon. Five years ago, I was an accountant living in a quiet suburban town, worrying about school tuition and grocery bills. Now, my fingers wrapped around the checkered grip without a trace of hesitation.
"Show me the safety," I said.
Julian showed me the lever, his eyes narrowing with grim approval. "Keep Lily in the center of the stack. My team will clear the primary perimeter, but Victoria’s elite unit—the Ironwood contractors—are guarding the transmission dish on the roof. The manual override is located inside the dish housing."
The helicopter flared its engines, dropping into a tight hover five feet above a wind-swept, snow-dusted ridge of granite.
"Go! Go! Go!" Julian shouted.
We spilled out onto the freezing mountain rock. The wind here was ferocious, carrying the bite of early winter snow. Julian’s four-man team immediately formed a protective perimeter around Lily and me, their rifles raised as we sprinted up the steep, rocky incline toward the domed silhouette of the observatory.
Ahead, the silence of the mountain was shattered by the crack of high-caliber sniper fire.
A mercenary at the head of our line jerked backward, his vest catching a round with a sickening thud. He hit the snow, rolled, and immediately returned fire toward the concrete catwalk of the observatory.
"Sniper in the eastern cupola!" Julian barked, dropping to one knee and firing a controlled burst that shattered the glass of the upper observation deck. "Claire, take the service trench! Get Lily inside the lower generator room!"
I grabbed Lily’s hand, bending low as bullets chipped the granite around our feet, sending stone fragments whistling through the air like shrapnel. We scrambled into a narrow concrete drainage ditch that ran along the foundation of the massive complex.
At the end of the trench was a heavy steel fire door, painted olive drab.
I slammed my shoulder against the handle. Locked.
Above us, the high-gain microwave antenna on the summit began to rotate, its massive parabolic dish groaning as it aimed toward the southern horizon, aligning with the Consortium's orbital satellites.
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A high-pitched acoustic whine cut through the wind—the transmitter was powering up.
***
