Chapter 7 - THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE.
I clung to a rotting wooden piling beneath the pier, shivering violently as the freezing harbor water drained from my ruined white suit.
My tactical holster was still secured to my thigh, and my weapon, designed for maritime operations, was perfectly intact.
Through the thick fog, I could hear the heavy thud of combat boots stomping across the wooden planks directly above my head.
"The container is fully submerged, perimeter is clear," a gruff male voice reported into a radio.
My mother always sent a cleanup crew to verify her kills, a methodical habit that was about to work to my absolute advantage.
I silently drew my pistol, checking the chamber in the dark to ensure the action was clear of saltwater debris.
Moving with agonizing slowness, I reached up and grabbed the rusted iron ladder bolted to the side of the pier.
My muscles screamed in protest, but the image of Lily’s terrified face fueled an adrenaline spike that overpowered the freezing cold.
I climbed the ladder without making a single sound, peering over the edge of the damp wooden platform.
Three mercenaries were standing near the edge of the pier, their tactical rifles lowered as they stared into the black water.
They were wearing unbadged black tactical gear, the standard uniform of my mother's private army.
I pulled myself over the edge, rolling silently onto the wet planks and coming up into a crouched firing stance.
The suppressor on my pistol coughed twice in rapid succession.
The two men on the left dropped instantly, their bodies hitting the deck with a heavy, lifeless thud.
The third man spun around in shock, raising his rifle, but I was already moving closing the distance between us like a ghost.
I slapped the barrel of his rifle away with my left hand and drove the butt of my pistol brutally into his sternum.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath, completely disarmed and entirely at my mercy.
I grabbed him by the throat, slamming his back against a wooden crate and pressing the hot muzzle of my gun under his chin.
"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice a demonic rasp of saltwater and pure rage.
The mercenary coughed up blood, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief that I had survived the drop.
"You're dead," he choked out, staring at me like I was a supernatural force rising from the grave.
"I will be your worst nightmare if you don't give me a location right now," I promised, pushing the barrel deeper into his flesh.
"The Blackwood Estate," he finally stammered, his resolve breaking under the weight of his own survival instinct.
"She took the girl to the fortified compound in the northern mountains, they are preparing the transport helicopters."
I knew the Blackwood Estate well; it was an impenetrable fortress built into a mountainside, heavily guarded and utterly isolated.
It was exactly the kind of stronghold Eleanor would use to organize an international extraction.
"How many men?" I asked, tightening my grip on his throat.
"Forty, maybe fifty, heavily armed, night-vision equipped," he wheezed, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple.
"Thank you for your cooperation," I whispered coldly.
I struck him across the temple with the grip of my gun, rendering him instantly unconscious without taking his life.
I stripped the dry tactical jacket from his body, shedding my ruined, soaked blazer and replacing it with the warm kevlar.
May you like
I checked his radio, his spare ammunition, and the keys to his transport vehicle parked near the warehouse.
The hunt was moving to the mountains, and I was going to bring a war to my mother's front door.
