Chapter 4 - Combat in the Glass Tower
The mercenary dropped halfway through the ceiling hatch, a heavy-duty stun baton crackling with blue electricity in his right hand. His eyes scanned the interior of the elevator car in a split second, locking instantly onto Mason, then shifting to me.
He didn't hesitate. He knew the target.
“Drop the bag, lady,” the operative grunted, his voice flat and robotic through a tactical headset.
I didn't drop the bag. I swung it like a pendulum, sending the aluminum bat crashing directly into his shins with a sickening crunch of bone beneath tactical shin guards.
The operative roared in pain, losing his footing and tumbling down into the elevator car, his stun baton clattering against the glass floor.
Mason shrieked, backing into the corner of the elevator like a trapped animal. “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill me!”
“Shut up, Mason!” I barked, stepping over the writhing mercenary and grabbing his headset. I yanked the comms mic off his collar and spoke directly into the broadcast channel. “Command, this is Deck 10 elevator shaft. Intruder neutralized. Send an armed extraction team to Deck 12 security immediately.”
A distorted voice crackled back through the earpiece: “Unit Three, report status. Have you secured the package?”
“Unit Three is currently indisposed,” I replied in my best cold, tactical dispatch voice. “Tell Arthur Montgomery his insurance policy just expired.”
I dropped the mic, turned back to the mercenary, and delivered a swift, precise heel-strike to the side of his helmet. He went limp instantly, sliding down the glass wall into a heap.
“Get up, Mason,” I ordered, grabbing my husband by the collar and hauling him to his feet.
“I can’t,” Mason sobbed, his eyes wide with stark terror. “They’ll kill us! My father owns half the maritime board—they’ll throw us overboard and call it an accident!”
“Your father owns a desk in Miami. I spent four years teaching twenty-year-old Marines how to survive improvised combat zones in the dark,” I hissed, my face inches from his. “Now, do you want to survive this, or do you want to spend the rest of your life crying in a corner? Because right now, your survival depends entirely on keeping up with me.”
I reached up, grabbed the manual override lever on the elevator ceiling hatch, and threw my full weight into it. With a loud clank, the cable-lock disengaged, and the elevator doors slowly cracked open, revealing the metallic hallway of Deck 11—just one deck below the security command center.
“Move,” I said, shoving Mason through the gap.
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We scrambled out onto the deck, the artificial sea breeze rushing past us from an open maintenance bay. The ship was cutting through the dark waters at twenty-two knots, the white foam churning far below in our wake.
We had less than five minutes before Arthur’s remaining security detail realized their point man had gone dark.
