Chapter 18 - The General’s Ambush
The downdraft from the Black Hawks flattened the tall marsh grass and sent empty metal barrels clattering across the tarmac.
Heavily armed commandos in unmarked black flight suits fast-roped down onto the runway from both sides of the aircraft.
They didn't wear federal badges, and their weapons were pointed directly at Claire’s team.
"Drop your weapons! Down on the ground now!" an amplified voice boomed from the lead helicopter's loudspeaker.
Marcus immediately stepped in front of Claire, rifle raised toward the incoming tactical line.
"They aren't marshals, Claire," Marcus shouted over the deafening engine roar. "Those are private defense contractors!"
"Vance’s personal security detail," Claire realized, her teeth gritting against the stinging spray of jet fuel and rain.
"They aren't here to arrest Raymond," Claire said with chilling certainty. "They're here to recover the briefcase and bury us."
From the door of the second helicopter, a familiar figure stepped onto the tarmac using an aluminum tactical ladder.
General Thomas Vance walked across the rain-swept concrete, wearing a waterproof field coat over his immaculate uniform.
Behind him walked two men in civilian suits carrying assault carbines with ruthless, professional poise.
The general stopped twenty paces away, looking at his wounded son bleeding on the ground, then at Evelyn sobbing on the stairs.
Finally, his eyes settled on Claire, who stood motionless with the carbon-fiber briefcase gripped tightly in her hand.
"Stand down, Claire," General Vance said, his voice amplified through a handheld field microphone.
"You did a remarkable job tracking them down," Vance continued, sounding like a disappointed father rather than a traitor.
"Now hand over the case and let my men secure the perimeter," Vance commanded smoothly.
"You sold out Reyes," Claire said, her voice carrying steady and clear despite the roaring helicopter engines.
"You sold out the entire Third Battalion for defense shares in a shell corporation."
General Vance let out a heavy sigh, adjusting his collar against the cold rain.
"You were always too idealistic, Claire," Vance said, a sad, patronizing smile touching his lips.
"War isn't won by medals and parade marches," Vance lectured, stepping closer under the protective cover of his armed guards.
"War is an industry that must be funded and managed by men who understand real power," the general stated coldly.
"Your father didn't understand that," Vance added. "Julian couldn't stomach it."
"And you?" Claire asked, her fingers resting lightly on the carbon-fiber handle. "What do you understand, General?"
"I understand that dead soldiers don't testify," Vance answered, his face hardening into pure, unadulterated ruthlessness.
He raised his right hand toward his lead contractor and gave a slight, flicking gesture of his index finger.
"Take the briefcase," General Vance ordered casually. "Leave no survivors."
Before the contractor could raise his rifle, Claire reached down to her utility belt and pulled the pin on an M18 military smoke canister.
She slammed it down onto the concrete, instantly unleashing a blinding cloud of thick, violet phosphorus smoke.
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"Marcus, initiate Protocol Zero!" Claire shouted through her throat mic.
"Fire!" Marcus bellowed into the blinding fog.
