Chapter 13 - Infiltration at Great Falls
A heavy blanket of autumn fog drifted off the Potomac, cloaking the pine forest surrounding the Great Falls estate in ghost-like silence.
High wrought-iron fences topped with razor wire separated the twenty-acre compound from the dark country road.
Jack knelt in the wet leaves behind a perimeter sensor node, his thermal monocular scanning the tree line for guard patrol patterns.
Two private security contractors wearing black combat fatigues and carrying customized carbines crossed the paved path sixty meters ahead.
They moved with the sloppy arrogance of high-paid mercenaries who believed their perimeter was impenetrable to civilian intruders.
Maya moved up silently beside Jack, her combat knife drawn and coated with matte black anti-reflective paint.
Jack signaled three fingers, then closed his fist, indicating a simultaneous takedown on the trailing guard.
With fluid, soundless steps that betrayed nothing of his mechanical limb, Jack closed the distance through the dense underbrush.
He struck like a phantom from the tree line, clamping one gloved hand over the guard’s mouth while driving his elbow into the man’s carotid artery.
The contractor lost consciousness in under four seconds, collapsing silently into Jack’s grip without firing a shot.
Ten feet away, Maya stepped behind the second guard, locking him into a textbook sleeper hold that dragged him instantly into the tall grass.
Maya stripped the guard's encrypted tactical radio and earpiece, slipping the acoustic tube into her ear to monitor their private security frequency.
Chatter on the channel confirmed that Undersecretary Thomas Sterling was currently inside the third-floor private study reviewing shipment manifests.
The rest of the mansion was filled with drunken socialites, defense lobbyists, and corrupt politicians celebrating their multi-million-dollar government contracts.
Jack and Maya bypassed the main terrace, utilizing an industrial drainage pipe to scale the stone exterior toward the second-story balcony.
Jack’s upper body strength, forged through thousands of pull-ups in physical therapy and desert outposts, carried him upward with mechanical grace.
He swung over the carved balustrade, landed on the carpeted floor of the guest wing, and pulled Maya up behind him.
The air inside the mansion smelled of expensive Cuban cigars, twenty-year-old scotch, and the rotten stench of unearned wealth.
Jack moved down the darkened corridor, weapon held in low-ready, his eyes processing every corner with lethal situational awareness.
At the end of the hall, two double oak doors were guarded by a scarred mercenary whose tactical vest bore the insignia of a private security firm.
The guard noticed the shadow moving against the wallpaper and reached for his sidearm holster.
Jack didn't give him the chance; he closed the distance with a ferocious burst of speed, driving his prosthetic knee straight into the mercenary's solar plexus.
The breath exploded out of the guard's lungs as he doubled over, completely incapacitated by the crushing blow.
Maya caught the falling man before his heavy tactical gear could strike the hardwood floor, lowering him soundlessly against the baseboard.
Jack reached out and grasped the polished brass handle of the double doors leading into Thomas Sterling’s inner sanctuary.
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Inside, the voice of the Undersecretary could be heard laughing arrogantly into a satellite phone about an upcoming weapons shipment to the Middle East.
Jack turned the handle, kicked the heavy door inward with a thunderous crack, and stepped into the room like an avenging ghost from a forgotten battlefield.
