THEY LOCKED MY 16-YEAR-OLD IN THE BLIZZARD ON CHRISTMAS EVE—UNTIL TWO ARMED GUARDS SALUTED HER BROKEN MOTHER: "GOOD EVENING, MAJOR GENERAL!"

The first breaching charge detonated against the upper stairwell door, sending a shockwave of concrete dust and hot shrapnel tearing down the corridor.

"Chloe, stay behind my desk, flat on the floor!" I ordered, stepping into the hallway as smoke billowed through the red-lit darkness.

Two operators in high-tech digital camouflage rounded the corner, their thermal goggles glowing like green insect eyes. Before their muzzles could align, I fired three rounds in rapid succession. The double-tap to the first operator's chest dropped him instantly; the third round punched cleanly through the second man's visor.

They fell with heavy, hollow thuds.

"Rear access point compromised!" Marcus yelled from the communications alcove, his rifle barking in short, controlled bursts as muzzle flashes illuminated the haze. "They're using thermite on the ventilation seals! We have less than three minutes before the air turns to poison!"

I sprinted back into the office, grabbing the micro-chip and slipping it into my tactical vest pocket.

"General, there’s an emergency subterranean rail line connecting this bunker to the Mount Vernon munitions depot," Marcus panted, reloading his weapon with bleeding fingers. "It hasn't been used since 1982, but the track is intact!"

"Move, now!" I roared.

I grabbed Chloe’s arm, hauling her through the hidden reinforced doorway behind the book archive. Behind us, another heavy explosion tore through my office, shattering the mahogany desk into kindling. Shouts in foreign tactical dialects echoed down the hall as the strike team poured into the breach.

We slammed the manual steel lever of the blast hatch, locking the heavy steel pins into place just as a barrage of high-caliber rounds pinged uselessly against the five-inch armor plating.