Chapter 15 - The Poisoned Guardian
The wall exploded in wood chips and drywall dust. A muffled, guttural howl echoed from within the crawlspace, followed by the heavy thump of a body collapsing behind the studs.
"Clara! Grab Lily and get down!" Mark roared, kicking the paneling with all the force in his six-foot-two frame.
The splintered pine caved inward. Mark reached into the dark crevice, his hand locking onto tactical nylon, and dragged the intruder violently out into the firelight.
The man hit the floorboards with a wet crash. He was clad in sterile gray tactical gear, devoid of insignia or serial numbers. Blood was already bubbling from his chest where Mark’s rounds had punched through the Kevlar vest. But what made Mark’s breath catch in his throat was the device strapped to the man's wrist: a tactical bio-monitor wired directly to a digital transmitter.
The screen displayed three vital signs: Mark’s, Clara’s, and Lily’s—tracked via micro-transponders hidden somewhere on their gear.
"Who sent you?" Mark demanded, placing the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple. "Arthur Vance? Brenda Collins? WHO?"
The wounded operative coughed, dark red spatter spraying across the floorboards. A grotesque, mocking grin spread across his bloodied lips. "You... you think you pulled the weeds, Holloway..." the man wheezed, his eyes rolling back. "You only... broke the surface. The Consortium... already owns... her blood."
Before Mark could demand another word, the man’s jaw snapped shut with a sickening crunch. His eyes went wide, pupils dilating into black pools as a pungent odor of bitter almonds flooded the room. Potassium cyanide. A false molar crushed in desperation.
"Mark!" Clara screamed from the kitchen.
Mark spun around, gun raised. Clara was standing frozen by the back window, staring out into the pitch-black tree line.
Outside, cutting through the swirling rain and fog, were half a dozen infrared laser beams, crisscrossing across the cabin’s front porch like a spiderweb of death.
Then came the buzzing drone of approaching rotor blades—flying low, hugging the mountain contours without running lights.
Mark lunged forward, sweeping Lily into one arm and grabbing Clara’s wrist with the other. "Basement trapdoor. NOW!"
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They dove into the subterranean cellar just as the first high-explosive round detonated through the front window, turning the living room into a raging inferno of shrapnel and fire.
***
