Chapter 43 - Beneath the Blast Furnace
The descent into the abandoned steel mill’s sub-basement felt like walking into the throat of a mechanical monster. The air tasted of sulfur, damp concrete, and old iron ore.
With our night-vision goggles casting an eerie green glow over the crumbling corridors, Ronan led our six-man tactical team down a rusted spiral staircase into a massive, cavernous control room littered with discarded supply crates and flickering halogen work lamps.
Standing by a makeshift radio transmitter in the center of the room, looking visibly panicked as he monitored a bank of scrambled monitors, was David Vance.
The jagged scar running down his neck looked even uglier in the pale green light.
“Vance,” Ronan’s voice echoed off the concrete walls like the crack of doom.
David spun around so fast he knocked his coffee mug off the table, shattering it against the floor. His eyes widened in absolute, frozen terror as he stared down the barrels of eight professional tactical weapons aimed directly at his chest.
“Cain...” David stammered, stumbling backward until his spine hit a massive steel electrical panel. “How... how did you find this place?”
I stepped out from behind Ronan’s broad shoulder, walking slowly into the dim light of the control room, my Sig Sauer held steady and level.
“You were sloppy with your proxy servers, David,” I said coldly, my voice ringing with absolute authority. “An accountant always recognizes a recycled IP address.”
David looked at me, a desperate, manic grin twisting his scarred face. “Thea Vance. The little ledger clerk who thought she could play mob boss. You think killing me solves your problem? Look at the monitor behind me.”
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We all glanced toward the glowing computer screen on the desk. A timer was counting down rapidly in bright red numbers: 00:04:12... 00:04:11...
“Remote thermal detonation charges,” David laughed hysterically, blood fleaking from his lips. “I planted them beneath the main fuel lines at Raven Hill twelve hours ago. The moment my heart monitor drops to zero—or if I don't punch in my disarm code every six hours—your little estate goes up in a mushroom cloud. Along with your daughter.”
