Chapter 3 - The Traitor's Gambit
I stared at the heavy iron door in absolute disbelief.
General Thomas Vance had been my mentor, my commanding officer, and a close family friend for over two decades.
He was the man who had personally pinned my Colonel insignia on my uniform.
"Rachel, you are officially violating federal law," Vance shouted from the other side of the steel door.
"Stand down and hand over the stolen drive, and I can make this all go away."
My heart hammered painfully against my ribs as the horrifying truth finally clicked into place.
Vance was the high-ranking Pentagon official protecting the Ferguson family's treasonous operation.
"If you want this drive, Thomas, you will have to step over my dead body," I yelled back, chambering a round into my weapon.
"That can easily be arranged," Vance replied coldly.
The sound of hissing gas echoed through the air vents near the ceiling of the safehouse.
Thick, white smoke began pouring rapidly into the enclosed room.
"Tear gas," I coughed, grabbing Abigail by the arm and pulling her toward the floor.
"Keep your face covered and stay below the smoke line," I instructed her.
I knew the layout of this black-site better than the architects who built it.
There was a subterranean drainage tunnel located beneath the floorboards in the far corner of the room.
I dragged Abigail across the concrete, my eyes burning and watering from the chemical agent.
I kicked aside an old dusty rug and pried the heavy wooden trapdoor open with my bare hands.
"Climb down the ladder, Abby," I ordered, pushing her gently into the dark hole.
Just as I prepared to follow her, the main steel door violently exploded inward.
A team of heavily armed, masked mercenaries swarmed into the smoky room, sweeping their assault rifles in every direction.
I dropped into the tunnel and slammed the trapdoor shut, plunging us into total darkness.
I engaged the heavy deadbolt on the underside of the door just as a barrage of bullets tore through the wood above us.
We crawled through the damp, narrow drainage pipe for what felt like hours.
The icy water soaked our clothes, chilling us entirely to the bone.
We finally emerged near a rocky riverbed miles away from the compromised lumber mill.
The morning sun was just beginning to peek over the tree line, casting long, dark shadows across the forest.
I pulled out my encrypted satellite phone to contact the only person left I could trust.
Before I could dial the number, a red dot suddenly appeared squarely on Abigail's chest.
"Do not move a single muscle, Colonel," a deep voice commanded from the dense brush behind us.
I slowly turned around to face the sniper holding us at gunpoint.
The man stepped out of the shadows, lowering the hood of his tactical jacket.
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I dropped my phone in pure, paralyzing shock.
The man aiming a rifle at my daughter was my husband, David.
