Chapter 791
“We burn them down,” I said, watching the digital map light up with the Syndicate’s secrets. Ideally, that was where the chapter ended, in triumph. But reality has a nasty habit of ignoring narrative arcs.
Thirty minutes after we secured the data, the federal transport convoy arrived at the Satellite Station. I stood by the hangar doors, the desert wind whipping my hair across my face, watching two U.S. Marshals shove a handcuffed Ethan Vance into the back of an armored carrier. Ethan didn’t look defeated. He looked at me through the reinforced glass and winked.
“He’s secure,” Alistair said, stepping up beside me, his hand resting on the small of my back. “It’s over, Skye.”
“Is it?” I murmured.
The convoy rolled out, kicking up a cloud of dust against the rising sun. They made it exactly two miles before the road erupted.
The shockwave hit us seconds after the flash, a concussive thump that rattled the hangar’s corrugated steel walls. A coordinated ambush. Black SUVs swarmed the smoke-filled road from the surrounding canyons like beetles on a carcass.
“Liam!” I screamed, realizing his vehicle was the lead escort.
Through the binoculars, I saw Liam’s SUV spin out, battered but functional. Instead of retreating to the station as protocol dictated, Liam gunned the engine. He swerved around the burning wreckage of the Marshal’s transport, chasing the black sedan speeding away from the carnage, the sedan carrying Ethan.
“He’s going after him,” Alistair cursed, sprinting for our vehicle. “That idiot is going off-grid.”
By the time we reached the ambush site, the sedan and Liam were gone. The tracks led into the city’s industrial labyrinth, into the dead zones where signals went to die. We had won the data, but we had lost the brother.
Three hours later.
𝗡𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗻 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘀.𝗰𝗼𝗺
The red dot on the panoramic screen in the Oracle Holdings command center wasn’t just a pixel; it was a heartbeat. And right now, it was beating too fast, erratic and desperate, before it simply vanished.
“Signal lost,” Parker announced, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, his voice tight with a fear he was trying to suppress. “Liam’s transponder just went dead in the Old Port district.”
I stood before the wall of monitors, my hands gripping the edge of the console so hard my knuckles turned white. The victory at the Satellite Station felt like a fever dream now. Ash from the ambush site still clung to my clothes, a gritty reminder of how quickly control could slip through our fingers.
“He’s not responding to comms,” I said, the words tasting like ash. My stomach churned, a physical knot of dread tightening with every second of silence. “Get him back online, Parker. Now.”
“I’m trying, Skye. The interference in that sector is military-grade. It’s a localized jammer, bouncing the signal off the shipping containers. I can’t triangulate him.”
“Where are Victoria and Richard?” I asked, needing to ground myself in the safety of the others.
“Victoria took your father to the secure medical wing at the safe house,” Parker replied without looking up. “She’s overseeing his check-up personally. They’re locked down and safe. It’s just us on this one.”
The heavy glass doors of the command center slid open. A courier, looking out of place in a neon vest amid the sleek black tech of our headquarters, walked in, flanked by two security guards. He carried a large, reinforced metal case.
“Delivery for Ms. Sterling,” the courier stammered, intimidated by the room’s tension. “Priority One. Signature required.”
Alistair Thorne stepped forward, his presence filling the room like a storm front. He had only just returned from the ambush site on the highway, his tactical gear scuffed and smelling of burnt rubber and propellant. He intercepted the courier, scanning the case with a handheld device.
“Clear,” Alistair said, his voice a low rumble. “But it’s emitting a high-frequency electronic signature.”
He popped the latches. The lid hissed as it opened.
Inside lay a piece of technology that looked like a spider made of matte black metal, surrounded by a holographic projector and a set of blueprints. On top sat a cream-colored card with elegant, familiar handwriting.
I picked it up.
“This is the backdoor to Ethan’s defense grid in the Old Port. He thought I was asleep at the wheel. Happy hunting. – J.V.”
“Julian,” I breathed. Even from the shadows, Julian Vance was playing chess while we were playing checkers. He must have anticipated Ethan would run to his old fallback points.
Alistair picked up the blueprints, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the schematics of a warehouse complex labeled Terminal 4.
“He knew. Julian knew Ethan had a contingency bunker here. This device… it’s a frequency hopper. It syncs with the jamming pattern and inverts it.”
“It cuts through their noise,” Parker realized, grabbing the device. “If I patch this into our uplink, we can override their jammer. But, Skye, I need you on logic processing. Ethan’s encryption changes every ten seconds based on a predictive algorithm. I can handle the code, but I need you to predict the seed key. You know how his mind works better than anyone.”
Alistair didn’t wait. He turned to Lucian Graves, who was cleaning a combat knife in the corner.
“Lucian. Gear up. We have a location.”
“Finally,” Lucian muttered, sheathing the blade. “I was getting bored.”
I grabbed my jacket from the chair. “I’m coming.”
Alistair stopped me. He didn’t grab my arm; he simply stepped into my path, a wall of muscle and resolve. His eyes, usually pools of dark intensity, were soft but unyielding.
“No,” he said.
“Liam is out there because of me,” I argued, my voice rising. “Because he’s trying to redeem himself in my eyes. I’m not sitting here.”
“You are the Oracle,” Alistair said, placing his hands on my shoulders. The heat of his palms seeped through my shirt, grounding me. “Parker needs a spotter for the code. If you’re in the field, you’re a liability to the cyber-support. If the grid doesn’t drop, we walk into a kill box.”
“You fight from here so I can fight out there.”
I looked at the screen, then at Alistair. He was right. My battlefield was digital; his was physical.
“Bring him back,” I whispered, the plea catching in my throat.