Chapter 6 - The Breakout-6
The atmosphere inside the narrow trailer shattered instantly into a standoff of absolute, lethal tension.
Jackson didn't hesitate. His hand darted under his jacket, clearing leather and drawing his custom sidearm, leveling it directly at General Vance's left eye before the two operators in the doorway could even raise their weapons.
"Try it," Jackson growled, his thumb slipping the safety off with a loud, distinct click. "I will put a round through your commander's head before your barrel clears your tactical chest rig."
The two operators froze in the doorway, their fingers hovering over their triggers, their eyes flicking rapidly between Vance and Jackson.
General Vance didn't flinch, but a bead of sweat broke out along his grey hairline. "This is treason, Colonel Carroll. You are drawing weapons on a four-star officer on domestic soil. You will hang for this."
"I was supposed to die in Kandahar six years ago, General," I said, stepping smoothly around the table. In one swift, brutal motion, I reached out, grabbed Vance by his silk necktie, and slammed his face hard onto the metallic table surface.
He let out a sharp grunt of pain as his nose shattered against the steel edge. Blood splattered across the classified papers spread across the table. Before his two bodyguards could react, I swept Vance's body in front of me as an ergonomic human shield, drawing my own sidearm and pressing the cold barrel directly into the soft flesh beneath his jaw.
"Drop your weapons!" I roared at the two operators. "DROP THEM OR HIS BRAINS ARE ON THIS TABLE!"
The operators hesitated for half a second, realized the cold, merciless reality of their situation, and slowly unclipped their primary weapons, letting their carbines drop heavily to the trailer floor.
"Jackson, bind them," I ordered.
Jackson moved with terrifying speed, forcing both operators to their knees, stripping their sidearms, and securing their wrists with heavy-duty zip-ties from his tactical belt. Within sixty seconds, Vance and his two private contractors were disarmed, zip-tied, and gagged on the floor of the command unit.
I leaned down close to Vance's bleeding face. "Where were you taking her, Vance? Tell me, and I might leave you with enough teeth to eat solid food."
Vance glared at me through eyes filled with hatred, mumbling incoherently through his tactical gag.
I grabbed the executive order from the table and flipped to the secondary routing page. There, stamped in red ink near the bottom signature line, was a facility designation code: FACILITY 7-BRAVO / NORFOLK NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE / SUB-SURFACE DOCK 4.
"Norfolk," I whispered. "The plane I was on... it was originally scheduled to land in Norfolk before I diverted it."
"They were going to put her on a submarine, Samson," Jackson said, his face grim as he read over my shoulder. "Once she’s aboard a submerged nuclear vessel in international waters, no court order, no police force, and no military unit on earth can ever track her down."
"We're leaving," I said. "Now."
I walked over to the fold-out cot where Chloe was sitting up, her small eyes wide with fear as she watched the bleeding General on the floor. She wasn't crying anymore. Somehow, seeing me in command had brought a strange, silent courage to her small frame.
"Daddy?" she whispered. "Are those bad men?"
"Yes, sweetie," I said, gently scooping her up into my left arm while picking up the metallic briefcase with my right hand. "They're very bad men. But we're going on a trip now, okay? Just you, me, and Uncle Jackson."
"Where are we going?"
"To put an end to this," I said.
We exited the back of the trailer into the dark, rain-soaked night. Jackson led the way, using a specialized frequency scanner to jam any local radio signals from Vance's team. We sprinted across the rain-slicked lawn behind the neighboring houses, avoiding the flashing lights of the police cars staged at the front of the cul-de-sac.
Waiting in an alleyway two blocks over was Jackson's secondary vehicle—an unmarked, blacked-out heavy Ford F-350 equipped with auxiliary fuel tanks, satellite communications, and run-flat tactical tires.
Jackson threw our gear into the crew cab while I carefully strapped Chloe into the middle seat, wrapping her warmly in my heavy leather jacket.
"Where to, Samson?" Jackson asked as he hopped into the driver's seat and fired up the twin-turbo diesel engine. The truck rumbled to life like a sleeping beast.
"They think we're going to hide, Jackson," I said, staring into the side mirror as emergency sirens began to wail frantically in the distance behind us—Vance’s team had undoubtedly broken free or alerted the perimeter guards. "They think a retired soldier with a traumatized kid is going to run for the border."
"And what are we actually doing?"
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I opened the black briefcase, staring down at the master list of names, corporate entities, and facility coordinates that made up the Vanguard Initiative.
"We aren't running," I said coldly. "We're going to Norfolk. We're going to hit Sub-Surface Dock 4 before that submarine ever leaves the pier."
