Chapter 11 - Crosshairs in the Light
The blinding glare of the stadium searchlights turned the area under the bleachers into a stark, high-contrast cage of bleached white and deep black shadows. The heat of the quartz lamps could be felt even forty feet below, cutting through the damp mist rising from the drainage ditch.
"They're using the stadium towers," Emilio said, squinting against the overwhelming brightness as he dragged Donovan out of the car by his lapels. "They don't care about collateral damage now. They're going to level the bleachers with indirect fire."
Donovan clawed at Emilio's grip, his expensive overcoat ripping at the shoulder seams. "You idiots! That's not my team! That's the Apex strike commander! He was given authorization to sterilize the entire zip code if the transfer failed!"
"Get in the car," Toby commanded, shoving Vance and Maya into the reinforced rear cabin. "The chassis can take the shrapnel!"
"Not a direct mortar strike, it can't," Emilio growled, shoving Donovan into the front passenger seat and climbing behind the wheel. The keys were still in the ignition, the heavy diesel engine purring smoothly. "Buckle up."
Toby dove into the front passenger side, pulling the heavy armored door shut just as the first mortar round struck the upper tier of the wooden bleachers fifty yards away.
The explosion sounded like the sky tearing in half. A concussive shockwave slammed down through the structure, raining splintered lumber, structural iron, and burning tar across the roof of the Mercedes. The heavy vehicle rocked violently on its suspension, the thick ballistic glass spider-webbing under the hail of falling debris.
Emilio slammed the transmission into drive, stomping the accelerator to the floorboards. The heavy four-wheel-drive tires dug into the wet mud, churning deep ruts before gripping the asphalt maintenance track. The car surged forward, bursting out from beneath the burning skeleton of the bleachers straight onto the running track encircling the football field.
"Where are the controls for the perimeter gates?" Toby shouted over the roar of the engine and the deafening screech of a second incoming shell.
"The gate's locked with heavy chain and a padlocked steel bar," Donovan choked out, his nose bleeding from the violent acceleration. "You can't ram it! It's reinforced steel!"
"Watch me," Emilio said.
He spun the wheel sharply, sending the five-ton armored vehicle sliding sideways across the synthetic track before straightening out toward the southern exit gate—a twelve-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire, anchored to thick brick pillars.
From the top of the home-team press box, an anti-materiel sniper round cracked through the air. The heavy .50 caliber bullet struck the hood of the Mercedes, punching a jagged hole clean through the sheet metal and severing an alternator belt with a high-pitched shriek. Steam billowed from the radiator grille.
"We're losing power!" Toby yelled, watching the dashboard gauges drop.
"We only need enough for one hit," Emilio said through clenched teeth, his face pale from his bleeding ribcage.
In the back seat, Maya opened Donovan's satellite laptop, jamming her memory card into the USB hub. "I'm initiating the transmission broadcast! It needs ninety seconds of continuous satellite link to upload the encrypted ledger!"
"Keep that antenna pointed out the window!" Emilio ordered.
May you like
The Mercedes accelerated toward the brick pillars, engine screaming in protest as metal ground against metal under the punctured hood. The heavy steel gates loomed forty feet ahead, illuminated by the twin beams of the headlights.
Just as the front bumper was about to impact the steel barrier, a second armored tactical truck pulled across the outside of the gate, blocking their only escape route with a wall of solid steel.
