Chapter 22 - The Sniper’s Ledger
"Get down!" Marcus roared, tackling me to the asphalt just as a high-velocity crack split the night air.
*Thwack!*
A bullet slammed into the metal frame of the paramedic truck behind us, sending a shower of orange sparks flying into the dark. Shouts erupted from the uniformed officers scrambling for cover behind their cruisers. Red and blue strobe lights died out one by one as the patrol cars' electrical systems suffered a cascading system failure, killed by the same electromagnetic pulse that had fried my phone.
"Fall back to the alley! Move, move, move!" Marcus yelled over the chaos, grabbing my arm and yanking me upright.
We sprinted through the darkness, ducking behind the brick retaining wall of the neighboring house, our breathing ragged and shallow. The acrid smell of burnt rubber and gunpowder hung heavy in the damp autumn air. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. June—thank God—was still inside the ambulance, which had enough localized analog shielding to keep its crew and my daughter safe for the moment, but we couldn't stay here. The entire neighborhood had been compromised.
"That wasn't a warning shot," I panted, pressing my back against the cold brick wall. "That was professional grade. A suppressed bolt-action rifle with subsonic rounds. They want us eliminated before the state police jurisdiction takes over the crime scene."
Marcus pulled his service pistol, checking the magazine in the dim moonlight. His hands were remarkably steady for a man whose precinct had just been digitally castrated. "Whoever's pulling the strings has eyes everywhere. Our comms are completely jammed. Radio frequencies are white noise. We're operating completely off-grid."
"Good," I muttered, sliding a heavy iron wrench I had picked up from the lawn out of my coat pocket. "Because operating inside their grid is how we got into this mess in the first place."
"Nora, be realistic," Marcus hissed, keeping low as a flashlight beam swept across the front lawn two houses down. "We can't fight a multi-billion-dollar defense contractor with a wrench and a pistol. We need to get out of Elmhurst. Now. I have a safehouse thirty miles north, off the reservation, completely analog. No smart meters, no fiber optics."
"No," I said, shaking my head firmly. "If we run north, they herd us right where they want us. Remember the ledger I showed you? The physical printout isn't the only copy. When I realized my home network was breached yesterday afternoon, I mirrored the entire database onto an encrypted, cold-storage flash drive. And it's currently hidden inside the lining of June’s art portfolio."
Marcus stared at me in disbelief. "You put a target on your daughter's back twice?"
"I put insurance on her life," I corrected sharply. "Without that drive, we have nothing to bargain with. They will hunt us down across state lines until we're just another unsolved missing persons case. But if we strike first—if we hit the secondary relay station they're using to route the surveillance data—we can flip the script."
"Secondary relay station?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Where?"
"The old municipal water treatment plant down on the industrial wharf," I said, recalling the strange data packets I had decoded before the fire started. "It’s been officially decommissioned for five years, but the power draw on the local grid hasn't dropped by a single kilowatt. That’s where Aegis Core is housing their local processing mainframe."
Marcus looked at me for a long, agonizing moment, weighing the astronomical risks against the absolute impossibility of surviving a retreat. Finally, a grim, humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"You're out of your damn mind, Nora Vance," he muttered, clicking his safety off. "But you've got the best tactical plan on the block. Let's go liberate an art portfolio."
We didn't use the streets. We moved like ghosts through the overgrown backyards of Elmhurst Lane, ducking beneath wooden fences and skirting the edges of shadowy tool sheds. When we reached the ambulance, the paramedics were huddled inside with June, terrified and locked down. I tapped gently on the rear glass.
The door cracked open an inch. June’s tear-stained face appeared in the gap.
"Mom?" she whispered.
"I'm right here, baby," I said, keeping my voice steady and reassuring. "We have to move. I need you to hand me your art portfolio. The heavy canvas one with the metal clasps."
June didn't hesitate. She unzipped her backpack, pulled out the thick black portfolio, and handed it through the crack. "Is someone trying to hurt us, Mom?"
"Not anymore," I lied gently, kissing her knuckles before closing the door. "Lock it from the inside. Don't open it for anyone except Detective Vance or me. We'll be right back."
May you like
With the portfolio secured under my arm, Marcus and I slipped past the burning wreckage of my porch, melting into the dense thicket of the old railway line that led straight down to the industrial wharf.
***
