The Krenshaw Tactical Compound was a fortress, nestled deep in a valley where Red Creek snaked through the pines. Thermal sensors dotted the perimeter, humming with unseen energy. But I knew this terrain better than Arthur knew his own greed.
I moved along the old, overgrown game trails that followed the creek bed. The water, surprisingly cold, muffled my heat signature, tricking the thermal cameras into seeing nothing more than the natural fluctuations of the environment. My breathing was slow, controlled, a lifetime of spec-ops training allowing me to blend with the wilderness.
I found the hidden drainage pipe Arthur had installed years ago, a relic from his early construction days before the compound became a full-blown syndicate hub. It ran under the main fence line, a narrow conduit designed to handle seasonal flooding.
It was just wide enough for me.
The air inside was damp and smelled of earth and rust. I moved slowly, silently, emerging into the subterranean level of the compound. This was the utility access, the less guarded underbelly. My target was the server facility, rumored to hold all of Krenshaw Tactical’s financial logs.
The corridor was dimly lit. I could hear the faint hum of servers, a promise of hidden truths. I reached the reinforced door, noting the biometric scanner. Too advanced for my old tricks.
Just as I began to consider my next move, the distinct sound of a security sweep team approached from down the hall—the rhythmic thud of heavy boots, the low murmur of voices. I was exposed.
A sudden, sharp tug pulled me backward. Before I could react, I was hauled into a dark electrical closet. The door clicked shut, plunging us into absolute blackness.
A whispered voice, young and urgent, cut through the silence.
“Silas Halloway?”
My hand instinctively went for the knife at my hip. Then, a small, laminated card was pressed into my palm. A master access keycard.
The voice spoke again. “It’s Eli. I told you I’d help.”
+ There are no comments
Add yours