The side doors of the BearCats flew open: *SHHH-CLANK.*
Pouring out onto the wet grass in fluid, synchronized mechanical velocity…
Came twelve operators from **DEVGRU Red Squadron**!
Across their chests hung suppressed SIG Sauer MCX Rattlers, their weapon-mounted PEQ-15 infrared lasers cutting through the drilling slurry in twelve razor-sharp needles of incandescent crimson light!
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“FEDERAL INQUEST! CORDON ESTABLISHED! DROP YOUR WEAPONS FLAT ON THE GRASS! KILL THE DRILLS!”
Eight crimson laser dots locked dead-center onto the contractors’ foreheads!
Two locked onto the drill operator’s hands!
Two locked onto Arthur Sterling-Vance’s chest!
The Apex contractors didn’t even attempt to raise their carbines.
Private mercenaries know when an operation is structurally terminal. They immediately released their weapon slings, dropped their rifles onto the wet sod, and sank flat onto their stomachs with their fingers laced behind their heads:
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*clack-clack-clack-clack.*
The drill operator hit the emergency kill switch.
The deafening scream of the diamond core drill died instantly, leaving only the hiss of cooling water and the low rumble of our tactical vehicle engines.
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
*TACK.*
The sound of my hand-welted leather boots stepping off the deployment vehicle onto the grass was slow, unhurried, rhythmic, and concussive.
Every step fell with the mechanical, heavy cadence of a naval battery firing across an enclosed harbor.
I walked through the drifting concrete dust, my denim jacket unbothered by the rain, my slate-gray eyes boring through the gale toward the mouth of the open cellar bulkhead.
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Beside me walked Barnaby, his golden coat bristling, his amber eyes locked onto Arthur Sterling-Vance’s jugular with silent, predatory discipline.
