Read on to see where the story goes next.

9 - 15

Rachel stayed flat against the cold, damp earth at the tree line, her night-vision monocular flipped down over her right eye. The green-tinted digital landscape revealed the interior of the excavation pit in sharp, high-contrast detail. Two armed operatives in full tactical gear stood guard near the breached entrance of the subterranean vault, their suppressed carbines pointed toward the dark mouth of the concrete tunnel. A third man—wearing a civilian winter coat over a tailored suit, contrasting sharply with the tactical uniforms around him—stood near a portable generator, holding a satellite tablet and conferring with someone via an encrypted earpiece.

"Status report," the man in the suit spoke, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet night air. "Did the containment unit breach during the extraction?"

"Negative, Director Vance," one of the guards replied through his radio vocoder. "The primary seal is intact. The titanium cylinder was recovered exactly where the seventy-four inventory logs indicated. No leakage detected in the secondary casing."

Director Vance. The name clicked instantly in Rachel’s mind. Arthur Vance—former assistant director of Department of Defense Threat Reduction Logistics, officially retired in 2018, currently operating as a high-level private security consultant for defense contractors specializing in classified asset retrieval.

He wasn't just a corporate buyer. He was the man who had overseen the original placement of the biological filtration units back in 1984, before retiring to profit off their secret recovery.

Rachel adjusted the focus on her monocular, scanning the perimeter of the pit. There were only two guards at the entrance and Vance near the generator. A fourth man was stationed inside the subterranean tunnel operating a winch system used to hoist heavy containers out of the vault.

Four operatives. Perimeter security was surprisingly light, which meant they believed the area was completely secure—that Brian’s cooperation and the local coroner’s cover-up had successfully sealed all loose ends.

They didn't account for Rachel Hayes.

She unclipped a tactical flash-bang grenade from her belt, checking the pin with her thumb. It wasn't lethal, but in an enclosed subterranean space like the bunker entrance, the sensory overload would be absolute, blinding and deafening anyone inside for at least twenty seconds.

She didn't wait for backup. There was no backup coming.

Silently, fluidly, Rachel slipped over the edge of the ravine, her boots finding purchase in the loose gravel and mud as she slid down the embankment toward the rear of the excavation site, keeping completely out of the direct line of sight of the floodlights.

She reached the shadow of a rusted steel bulkhead container parked near the generator. Director Vance was still speaking into his satellite tablet, his back turned toward her.

"Move the transport truck closer to the trench," Vance commanded into his earpiece. "I want this asset loaded onto the C-130 out of the county airstrip before dawn. The last thing we need is another nosy relative poking around the estate."