Chapter 19 - The Raid on Mount Weather
The two Black Hawks skimmed low over the jagged, fog-draped peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The rotor wash tore through the pine branches as we flared for landing on a hidden concrete pad nestled deep in a secluded ravine.
The bunker entrance looked like a natural cave from the air, but up close, it was reinforced with steel arches and armed surveillance towers.
The towers were dark.
The cameras were severed.
Trevor had executed his own perimeter guards upon arrival, leaving no living witnesses behind him.
Ten elite federal tactical operators, clad in midnight black with suppressed weapons, moved behind me in a tight stack as we reached the massive blast door.
Beside the door was a glowing biometric scanner.
The display flashed red: *VAULT RESTRICTED. SYSTEM LOCKED BY EXECUTIVE PROTOCOL.*
I stepped forward into the scanner's green targeting reticle.
I placed my right palm against the cold glass.
The scanner chimed.
*BIOMETRICS CONFIRMED: MERCER, KATHERINE. PRIMARY HEIR.*
Instantly, a secondary warning screen began flashing yellow:
*CAUTION: PROTOCOL OMEGA ARMED. ACCESS WILL INITIATE ARCHIVAL PURGE.*
"He’s waiting for you to hit enter," Miller whispered behind me, his rifle pointed at the steel seam of the door.
I reached out with my left hand and bypassed the touchscreen prompt.
I pressed the manual mechanical keypad hidden beneath the service plate.
1 - 0 - 1 - 4 - 8 - 3.
The yellow flashing stopped.
The green clearance lights along the tunnel ceiling flashed three times in succession.
With a deep, pneumatic hiss that sounded like the breath of a waking monster, the four-foot-thick blast door unlocked and slid slowly into the mountain wall.
The air that rushed out was freezing cold, smelling of ozone, diesel fuel, and damp granite.
"Go, go, go," Miller barked.
The tactical team flooded through the breach, their weapon-mounted lights carving through the pitch-black corridor.
We moved in dead silence past rows of decommissioned communications racks and emergency survival bunkers.
At the end of the main corridor, through a set of shattered glass security doors, lay the central mainframe room.
Dozens of high-density server towers hummed in the darkness, their blue and amber LEDs pulsing in rhythm with a massive data transfer.
In the center of the room, illuminated by the bright glow of three tactical computer monitors, stood Trevor.
He had discarded his designer suit jacket.
His white dress shirt was stained with sweat and grime, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and dilated with amphetamines.
Beside him sat the handcuffed briefcase, plugged directly into the central terminal via a fiber-optic cable.
On the main display, a progress bar read: *SATELLITE LINK ESTABLISHED: 89% COMPLETE.*
"Step away from the terminal, Trevor," I ordered, stepping through the glass doors with my rifle held in the low-ready position.
Trevor flinched, spinning around with a heavy revolver clutched in his trembling right hand.
He saw the ten red laser dots instantly converge on his chest, throat, and forehead.
Yet he didn't drop the gun.
He threw his head back and laughed—a broken, hysterical sound that bounced off the granite walls.
"You made it, Kate!" Trevor screamed, his voice cracking with madness.
"The righteous general has arrived to save the republic!"
"Drop the weapon, Trevor," I repeated, my tone as steady as stone.
"There are no planes waiting for you."
"There are no foreign accounts."
"Arthur is dead."
"Eleanor is dead."
"You are alone in a hole in the ground."
Trevor’s face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom.
"You think this was about Arthur?"
"You think my mother was running this?"
"You arrogant, self-righteous b***h!"
"They were pawns, Kate!"
"Just like your pathetic, dead mother was a pawn!"
"Look at the screen!" Trevor screamed, pointing the revolver wildly toward the mainframe terminal.
"Look who is buying the network!"
I glanced at the monitor.
The IP destination for the defense telemetry wasn't Dubai.
It wasn't Moscow.
The transfer was being routed directly into an internal server inside the United States Capitol Building.
"The syndicate wasn't behind Arthur Mercer," Trevor spat, tears of rage mixing with the sweat on his cheeks.
"Arthur Mercer was created to shield the syndicate inside the United States government!"
"And the man who gave the order to kill Eleanor... the man who gave the order to frame your mother thirty years ago..."
Trevor’s finger tightened on the trigger of the revolver.
May you like
"He is sitting in the Oval Office right now."
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