Chapter 18 - NIGHT IN POINT LOMA
"Lookout," the coordinator barked into his throat microphone. "Report!"
Silence answered him over the earpiece.
"Lookout! Status!"
A faint, metallic click echoed from the dark corner near the sliding wooden door—the soft, wet sound of a heavy body sliding down against iron sheeting to rest on the floorboards.
The coordinator turned his weapon toward the sound, his tactical light cutting through the darkness in a sharp, narrow beam.
The beam illuminated the empty corner where the lookout had been standing five seconds earlier. The lookout’s thermal binoculars sat neatly on a wooden crate, but the man himself was gone, replaced by a single black feather resting on the concrete.
"Behind us!" the second technician screamed, spinning around with his weapon raised.
He never fired a shot.
A dark figure emerged from the absolute blackness behind the server rack like a ghost rising from deep water. A swift, surgical strike to the technician's neck cut off his airway, followed by a fluid, mechanical sweep that swept his legs out from under him. He hit the concrete floor without making a sound, unconscious before his weapon clattered against the ground.
The coordinator scrambled backward, bringing his suppressed pistol up, his tactical light frantically searching the shadows.
"Who are you?!" he roared, his discipline shattering into blind panic. "Federal Marshals?! SEALs?!"
A voice spoke from three feet behind his right shoulder—a voice so calm, so quiet, that it seemed to originate from inside his own mind.
"Lower the weapon."
The coordinator spun around, raising his gun—but his wrist was caught in an iron grip that twisted the steel frame upward, forcing his finger away from the trigger. A short, devastating elbow strike to his sternum knocked every breath from his lungs, dropping him to his knees on the cold concrete.
The single halogen lamp overhead flickered back to life, casting a bright, clinical light across the warehouse floor.
Lieutenant Amelia Carter stood over the fallen coordinator. She was wearing her black tactical gear now, her face completely calm, her hair damp from the rain outside. In her hand, she held the coordinator’s suppressed sidearm, ejecting the magazine with a single, practiced click of her thumb.
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Behind her, two black-clad operators were already efficiently securing the electronic drives and packing the satellite receivers into steel transport cases.
"Vance didn't miss his check-in," Amelia whispered, looking down at the shivering coordinator. "He was retired."
