Chapter 23 - Wings Over the Burning Mountain
The MH-60 Black Hawk roared through the low-hanging thunderclouds above the Blue Ridge Mountains at maximum throttle, its twin turboshaft engines screaming against the torrential rain.
Inside the darkened cabin, illuminated only by the faint red glow of tactical jump lights, Claire stood by the open side door. The wind whipped her dark hair violently against her face, cold rain lashing her skin. She had discarded her dress uniform jacket; she now wore a fitted crye-precision combat rig, twin sidearms holstered on her thighs, and an M4A1 customized with a holographic sight resting against her chest.
Beside her, Master Sergeant Marcus Vance—the Navy SEAL who had first recognized her classified insignia at the gala—checked the chamber of his heavy sniper system.
"Satellite telemetry just updated, Captain!" Vance yelled over the deafening rotor roar, pointing down at a tactical ruggedized tablet. "Strike team has secured the roof of Cumberland Supermax. They’ve established a five-hundred-meter exclusion zone with anti-material rifles. Federal air-support helicopters won't go near it—they already took down two state police choppers with surface-to-air MANPADS."
"They’re not terrorists, Marcus," Claire shouted back, her voice cutting through the tempest. "They are Ghost Team One. They were the premier covert-action unit in the entire Eastern Hemisphere before the military erased them. They wrote the book on airfield denial."
"Your brother is on that roof, Claire!" Vance pressed, his eyes dead serious. "He’s broadcasting a dark-web video feed over an uncrackable satellite uplink. It's already mirroring to every major news outlet in the Western world. Over twelve million people are watching right now. If he puts a bullet through Margaret’s head on live television, the Pentagon will launch an airstrike and obliterate that entire facility—with Ethan and everyone on it—to preserve plausible deniability!"
Claire looked down at the tablet screen.
The live feed was crystal clear despite the rain. The Appalachian mountain peak was shrouded in mist, the Cumberland facility blazing below like a fortress under siege. In the center of the rooftop helipad, Margaret Montgomery was forced down onto her knees, hands bound behind her back, weeping uncontrollably into the camera.
Behind her stood Ethan. He was holding an M1911 pistol—their father’s service weapon, an heirloom Margaret had claimed was lost in transit years ago.
*"People of the United States,"* Ethan's voice echoed through the tablet’s tiny speakers, steady, unyielding, dripping with arctic venom. *"You were told that Montgomery Defense was the shield of freedom. You were told that our soldiers were protected by the finest armor and the most advanced munitions American industry could provide. You were lied to. My unit was ambushed because our encrypted comms had backdoors sold to foreign cartels. My men were slaughtered for profit margins. And the architect of that slaughter... kneels right here."*
Ethan raised the pistol, aligning the heavy steel barrel directly against the base of Margaret’s skull.
"Two minutes out!" the pilot screamed through Claire’s headset. "Captain, we are entering the thermal envelope of their anti-air missiles! If they lock on, we drop like a stone!"
"They won't shoot," Claire said, stepping directly onto the Black Hawk’s exterior landing skid, holding the ceiling harness with one hand.
"How can you be sure?" Vance shouted, terrified.
May you like
Claire looked down through the driving rain at the rooftop platform emerging through the mist five hundred feet below.
"Because he’s waiting for me."
