The encrypted desk speaker crackled with Sergeant Miller’s strained voice, the tension filling the chilled air of Billy’s office before the transmission even began to warp.
“Control, this is Sergeant Miller, I've got a... Sector four server vault... we've got an active insider threat—”
Before the last syllable even left the speaker—before Billy's jaw could fully drop or the commander could even twitch toward his sidearm—I was already gone.
The heavy steel-toed boots slammed into the concrete with an explosive crack, kicking up a tiny puff of grey dust as I tore across the room. The kinetic force of the launch rattled the desk lamps and sent a stack of tactical binders sliding across the steel surface. By the time the audio cut out with that sickening, muffled wet thud over the comms, my shoulder had already blown through the office's reinforced double doors, shattering the pneumatic latches and sending them swinging violently against the corridor walls.
"Daniel!" Billy roared, leaping out of his chair with his weapon drawn.
"What the hell—!" the commander cursed, dropping into a sprinter's stance and wrenching his carbine up, ready to fire at whatever had just detonated out of the private office.
"Stay back, both of you!" I yelled back over my shoulder, my voice echoing hard down the empty, red-lit corridor.
I didn't slow down. Sector Four was three hundred meters out, past the subterranean vehicle bay, past the auxiliary mess hall, and straight through the heart of the lower logistics labyrinth. My lungs instantly flooded with the sharp, metallic taste of iron and adrenaline, but my legs didn't stutter. Every stride was a piston stroke, eating up the polished concrete floor with ferocious intent.
As I hit the primary intersection leading to the mess hall auxiliary, two junior logistics techs stepped out of a supply closet carrying a heavy crate of replacement rifle plates. They didn't even have time to turn their heads. I didn't bother breaking stride or calling out; I dropped my shoulder, tightened my core, and trucked right through the middle of them like a freight train hitting a pair of bowling pins. The crate flew, sending ceramic plates clattering across the floor in a chaotic clatter of composite armor, while the two techs bounced off the concrete walls with sharp gasps of winded shock.
"Out of the fucking way!" I roared, rounding the tight ninety-degree bend into the lower supply corridor.
My palm slammed hard against the corner drywall, using the friction to whip my body around the blind turn at a dead sprint without losing an ounce of momentum. My boots hydroplaned slightly over a puddle of leaked hydraulic fluid near the motor pool access point, my arms windmilling for a fraction of a second to catch my balance before my spikes bit back into the concrete.
The red emergency strobes overhead pulsed like a warning heartbeat, casting long, frantic shadows against the stainless-steel bulkheads. Up ahead, the heavy pneumatic double doors of the auxiliary sector were swinging shut, automated lockdown protocols finally kicking in behind Miller's cut-off transmission.
Not on my watch.
I launched my entire body forward, tucking my shoulder and extending both arms. I hit the center seam of the closing steel doors dead-center with the full kinetic weight of my sprint. The heavy pneumatic cylinders shrieked in protest, metal groaning against metal as the seals violently compressed under the impact. With a savage grunt, I forced my boots into the floor and threw my weight outward, wrenching the heavy doors apart just enough to squeeze through.
I slipped through the gap like a shadow, the sliding doors slamming shut behind me with a thunderous bang that rattled the overhead conduit trays.
Ahead of me, the corridor stretched straight and dark toward the primary server vault. A faint smear of fresh blood was already tracking across the floor near the entrance, and the heavy server-room door stood crooked on its reinforced hinges.
The rat had nowhere left to run.
I skidded across the threshold of the primary server vault, the rubber soles of my boots screaming against the polished concrete. The cool, hum-filled air of the mainframe room hit my face, mixed immediately with the sharp, coppery stench of fresh blood.
Miller was down between server rack row four and five, sprawled hard on his back. A nasty, deep fracture caved in the side of his tactical helmet, and a dark, pooling stain was spreading rapidly across the white tiles beneath his head. He was gasping, chest heaving in erratic, shallow hitches, fighting desperately for air.
I dropped to one knee beside him, my hand hovering over his vest to check for a pulse, when out of the corner of my eye, a flash of motion caught the edge of the blue-lit server aisle.
Down at the far end of the row, a dark shadow was rounding the corner toward the rear exit leading to the motor pool.
I had a fraction of a second to weigh the options. Miller was bleeding out, drowning in his own blood—every second counted. But if I stopped to patch him up right here, the rat who just tried to put him in the ground would slip out of the subterranean facility completely, wiping every remaining trace and leaving us blind again.
Decision made.
I spun back toward Miller, shouting over the hum of the mainframes, "Hold on, soldier! I'll be back for you!"
Before the echo of my voice could even fade off the metal racks, I exploded off the floor and took off after the shadow at a dead sprint.
My boots hammered down the secondary corridor, flying past rows of backup generators and ventilation conduits until I hit the heavy industrial steel doors leading straight into the underground vehicle garage. As I rounded the corner, I caught sight of the figure in the standard tactical vest—the mole—stumbling forward, frantically pulling a high-clearance ID badge from his belt.
He jammed the card against the wall-mounted security terminal.
BEEP.
The heavy overhead motor pool doors shrieked to life, beginning a rapid descent to seal off the garage bay.
"Oh, hell no," I muttered, gritting my teeth and leaning forward, pumping my arms and driving my legs into overdrive to close the gap.
I poured every last ounce of explosive speed into the final twenty yards, kicking up dust and gravel as I pushed past my limits. But the automated heavy-duty steel panels were too fast.
Clang.
The bottom edge hit the concrete floor with a deafening thud just a half-second before my boots reached the threshold
I slammed into the solid steel wall of the closed door, my palms crashing flat against the cold metal and the small reinforced wired-glass window.
"Motherfucker!" I barked, hammering my fist once against the steel plate before pressing my face to the glass.
Out in the sprawling, dim-lit expanse of the subterranean motor pool, a black military Humvee was already idling near the exit ramp, its engine rumbling with a low, aggressive growl. The mole sprinted toward it, but instead of just diving inside, he caught movement at the glass partition. He slowed his pace, pivoting on his heel to face the sealed door.
Standing right there on the running board of the Humvee, he looked back across the cavernous garage. Even through the wire-reinforced glass, I could see the distinct shape of his grin—a calm, arrogant expression of triumph. He paused for a beat, raised his hand in a slow, deliberate military salute right at the window, and held it for a second just to let it sink in.
Then, he dropped his hand, hopped down into the cab, and slammed the door shut.
The Humvee’s engine roared to a deafening crescendo. Tires shrieked against the concrete, kicking up a thick cloud of exhaust and tire smoke, and the vehicle tore up the exit ramp and out into the West Coast night, leaving me locked behind a wall of cold, silent steel.