Chapter 4 - The Ghost Protocol
We moved under the cover of a moonless night, three shadows against a world of glass and steel.
The Foundry's headquarters was a sleek, thirty-story tower in the heart of the capital.
To the world, it was the "Institute for Global Peace."
To us, it was the throat of the beast.
Agent Miller handled the external security, looping the camera feeds with the precision of a master hacker.
My father sat in the back of the van, his fingers flying across a keyboard, fighting a silent battle in the digital ether.
"You have six minutes before the backup servers recognize the loop," he said into my earpiece.
I was already on the roof, having rappelled from a neighboring building.
I wore black tactical gear, my face painted in shadows.
"Acknowledged," I whispered.
I shattered the glass of the top-floor skylight and dropped into the silent hallway.
The air inside smelled of ozone and expensive floor wax.
I moved like a predator, checking every corner, my carbine held tight against my shoulder.
I reached the server room—the "Brain" of The Foundry.
Inside, two guards were patrolling the rows of humming machines.
I didn't hesitate.
I moved with a speed that only decades of combat can teach.
Two silenced shots.
Two bodies hitting the floor with muffled thuds.
"I'm in," I said.
"Inserting the drive now."
I plugged the brass key—which I now realized was a high-capacity hardware token—into the main console.
"Data transfer at forty percent," my father's voice crackled.
"Hold your position, Bea."
"They've realized someone is inside."
Suddenly, the alarms began to howl.
Red lights bathed the white walls in the color of blood.
The heavy blast doors at the end of the hall began to hiss shut.
"Beatrice, get out of there!" Miller shouted over the comms.
"A strike team is coming up the elevator!"
"I'm not leaving without the data," I said, my voice cold and steady.
"Sixty percent."
The elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open.
Four men in heavy armor stepped out, carrying submachine guns.
I dived behind a reinforced server rack as bullets began to tear into the machinery.
Sparks showered over me.
The sound was deafening, a rhythmic pounding of lead against metal.
I popped up and returned fire, taking down the lead operative with a shot to the neck.
"Eighty percent."
My shoulder burned as a bullet grazed my skin, tearing through my suit.
I ignored the pain.
I had bled for less important things in the deserts of the Middle East.
"Ninety percent."
The last operative was pinning me down, his fire relentless.
I reached into my belt and pulled out a flash-bang.
"Cover your eyes, Dad," I muttered.
I tossed the grenade.
The world turned white.
In the moment of their blindness, I stepped out and finished the job.
"One hundred percent," my father whispered.
"I have it all."
"The names, the bank accounts, the locations of every Foundry cell in the country."
"Beatrice, the roof is compromised. You have to jump."
I grabbed the brass key and ran toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I didn't look at the height.
I didn't think about the concrete below.
I crashed through the glass, the shards glittering like diamonds in the moonlight.
I felt the rush of the wind, the stomach-flipping sensation of freefall.
Then, my parachute cord yanked hard, snapping me back to reality.
I drifted down into the darkness of the city, the data safely tucked against my heart.
The Foundry was burning from the inside out.
But as I landed in a dark alley, I saw a familiar figure waiting for me.
It was the woman who had played my mother at the funeral.
She held a gun to my father's head.
He was kneeling on the pavement, his face bruised.
May you like
"The key, Colonel," she said, her voice devoid of any human emotion.
"Or your father dies for real this time."
