Chapter 63 - The Ghost Transmissions
"Director Sterling," Arthur whispered into the dark. "He was ninety years old when I took the boy forty years ago. He should be in a grave."
*"The flesh is temporary, Arthur,"* the voice purred from the horn speakers mounted along the ceiling beams. *"The Consensus is eternal. You gave your life to construct the walls of this mountain. Did you really believe you could keep the foundation for yourself?"*
Footsteps echoed from the catwalk below us—heavy, rhythmic, synchronized.
Evelyn dropped to one knee, snapping her tactical flashlight onto the barrel of her rifle. The beam pierced the gloom, cutting through the swirling coolant fog.
Three hundred yards down the central axis of the cavern, emerging from the shadows of the server banks, were four men. They didn't wear mismatched mercenary gear like the Syndicate thugs Richard had brought to the house. They wore form-fitting, matte-black pressurized combat suits, ballistic full-face helmets with integrated night-vision arrays, and carried shortened carbines equipped with heavy suppressors.
"Praetorian Vanguard," Evelyn hissed. "Private corporate security. Black-budget contractors. These aren't street scavengers, Arthur. These guys are Tier One operators."
"They don't want to damage Julian," Arthur observed, his voice cold and analytical. "They're using non-lethal subsonic munitions or shock darting. But you and I, Evelyn... we're disposable trash."
"Good to know," Evelyn muttered, clicking her selector switch to semi-automatic. "Take out the point man?"
"No," Arthur said, grabbing her barrel and pushing it down. "Look at the floor beneath them. See those brass conduits running parallel to the catwalk?"
I leaned forward, squinting through the gloom. Embedded into the concrete floor were thick, braided copper rails that converged at a massive circular steel hatch fifty yards ahead of the approaching fireteam.
"The high-voltage shunt," Arthur explained, pulling a heavy brass toggle key from his tactical vest. "When they designed this sub-level, they were terrified of an internal staff mutiny. Every corridor in Sector 7 has an independent static-discharge grid built to neutralize unauthorized personnel."
*"Arthur,"* Sterling’s voice returned over the PA, laced with mild amusement. *"The manual shunts were decoupled in eighty-nine. You are reciting protocols from an obsolete era."*
The lead operator suddenly stopped, raised his weapon, and fired two rapid bursts toward our position.
*THWIP-THWIP-THWIP.*
Heavy tungsten-core darts punched through the corrugated steel deck inches from my foot, releasing a hiss of pressurized paralytic aerosol that smelled faintly of bitter almonds.
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"Run!" Arthur yelled, shoving me down the stairwell at the end of the catwalk. "To the central hub! If we reach the mainframe before they seal the perimeter bulkheads, we can burn the routing tables!"
We tumbled down the metal stairs, our boots clattering on the steel mesh as suppressed rounds chipped the concrete walls around us, spitting lethal splinters into the dark.
