Chapter 9 - The Adirondack Redoubt
Heavy fog clung to the pine canopy of the Adirondack mountains as the unmarked black chopper skimmed low over the tree line. The temperature had dropped near freezing, a bitter autumn drizzle coating the helicopter's windshield.
Maya sat in the passenger cabin, donning a lightweight Kevlar vest over a dark tactical sweater. Beside her, Marcus checked the action on his submachine gun.
""Thermal imaging shows eight perimeter sentries on the ground,"" Marcus reported, pointing to a rugged tablet mounted between them. ""No heavy armor, but they’re trained mercenaries. Julian’s private security.""
""Rules of engagement?"" Maya asked.
""Lethal force authorized. The Governor just declared a state of emergency over the Hudson tankers. We have twenty-five minutes before Homeland Security grounds all private aircraft.""
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom: ""Drop zone in twenty seconds. Hovering at thirty feet. You'll have to fast-rope in.""
Maya nodded, tightening her tactical gloves. The cabin door slid open, letting in a blast of freezing mountain air. The vast stone-and-timber mansion loomed below them, perched on the edge of a sheer granite cliff overlooking a frozen mountain lake.
Marcus tossed the heavy braided rope out the door. Two tactical operators descended first, hitting the damp earth silently and establishing a security perimeter. Maya followed immediately, sliding down the rope with practiced precision, her boots sinking into the wet mud.
A sudden burst of automatic gunfire tore through the mist.
One of Marcus’s operators grunted and dropped behind a boulder, returning fire into the pine trees.
""Flank right!"" Marcus shouted, firing a controlled three-round burst that neutralized an advancing mercenary behind a stone wall.
Maya drew her sidearm, keeping her head low as bullets whined off the granite outcropping. She wasn't an operative, but Arthur Vance had spent six years making sure his only daughter knew how to survive an ambush.
She spotted the steel blast doors leading into the mountain cellar—the auxiliary entrance her father had shown her when she was twelve years old.
""Marcus! The cellar grate!"" Maya called out.
May you like
Marcus waved two men forward to cover her. ""Move! We'll hold the yard!""
Maya sprinted across the open lawn, rounds chewing up the grass at her heels, and threw herself against the rusted steel grate of the mountain bunker.
