CHAPTER 13: The Final Stand
The heavy steel bulkhead groaned under a violent, sustained assault from the other side. With a deafening screech of tearing metal, the locking bolts sheared off one by one, and the massive door swung inward, crashing against the concrete wall.
Smoke and blinding white flash-bang grenades poured into the subterranean bunker.
"Get down!" my father roared, shoving me behind a heavy steel server rack as the first concussive blast went off, filling the room with a high-pitched ringing sound and blinding light.
Shadows moved through the smoke—heavy tactical gear, assault rifles raised, moving with lethal, calculated precision.
"Target acquired!" a harsh voice shouted through a gas mask. "Secure the girl, eliminate the old man!"
I didn't hesitate. I peered around the edge of the server rack, raised Marcus’s Glock, and fired two rapid shots toward the leading silhouette. The mercenary stumbled backward, dropping his weapon as he collapsed against the concrete floor.
"Nice shot!" my father yelled over the gunfire, returning suppressive fire from his position behind the central console.
Bullets chewed through the expensive server racks, sending sparks and shredded computer components flying through the air. The smell of burning plastic and cordite filled the cramped space.
"Upload at ninety percent!" the automated robotic voice chimed through the bunker's speakers.
Suddenly, a heavy, armored figure lunged through the smoke directly toward our position. It was David Vance Jr., his face bruised and bleeding from the car crash, his eyes wild with unhinged fury.
He didn't fire his rifle; instead, he threw himself over the server rack, tackling my father to the ground with a brutal, bone-jarring crash.
"Dad!" I screamed, scrambling out from behind cover.
Vance raised a heavy combat knife, aiming straight for my father's chest. Without thinking, I lunged forward, grabbing a heavy steel wrench from the maintenance tray beside the console and bringing it down with all my might across the side of Vance’s head.
Vance grunted, his eyes rolling back as he slumped sideways, unconscious, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
My father coughed, rolling Vance off his chest, and looked up at the main console.
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A soft, melodic chime echoed through the bunker.
Outside the heavy blast doors, the sound of approaching sirens—dozens of them, accompanied by the rotor blades of heavy law enforcement helicopters—began to echo down from the desert surface above.
