Chapter 13 - THE BASEMENT TERMINAL
The interior of Building 104 smelled of damp dust, scorched insulation, and stagnant water.
Maya moved through the narrow hallway like a wraith, her boots gliding across the cracked linoleum floor without making a single sound. Her suppressed pistol was raised to her eye line, its tritium night sights glowing faint green in the dark. Beside her, Kane moved with equal precision, his flashlight clicked to its lowest infrared setting, visible only through the night-vision goggles mounted over his left eye.
They reached the central stairwell leading down into the subterranean communications bunker.
From the bottom of the concrete stairs, a faint, flickering blue light illuminated the damp walls. Along with the light came the low, rhythmic clicking of a mechanical keyboard being operated at high speed.
Maya raised two fingers, signaling Kane to hold his position at the top of the landing. She lowered herself onto her knees, sliding down the first four concrete steps on her shins, her weight distributed so perfectly that no shadow heralded her approach.
At the bottom of the stairs, sitting before an open steel junction box packed with glowing network switches and satellite relays, was a man in dark tactical civilian clothing. A ruggedized military laptop sat on an overturned wooden crate beside him, its screen displaying lines of cascading green code and regional map overlays.
A suppressed submachine gun lay on a clean rag beside his right knee.
Maya stepped off the final stair onto the basement floor.
"Hands off the board," Maya said, her voice dropping into a razor-thin tone that carried through the damp room like a blade sliding out of a sheath.
The man’s fingers froze over the mechanical keys.
He didn't panic. He didn't reach for his submachine gun. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hands from the keyboard, spreading his fingers wide as he turned his head slowly to look back over his shoulder.
He was in his late thirties, with a short, cropped hair cut, a razor-thin surgical scar running along his lower lip, and cold, pale blue eyes that showed no trace of fear or surprise.
"Maya Vance," the man said, his voice carrying a light, eastern European accent. "I wondered how long it would take Division Four’s premier cleanup agent to trace the relay."
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Maya kept her pistol sights locked directly onto the center of his forehead. "Who bought the Erbil roster, Miller?"
The man smiled faintly, a dark, humorless expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Miller was an amateur who thought he could hide behind a retired pension in Vienna. The roster wasn't sold, Maya. It was reclaimed by the people who funded your little ghost team in the first place."
