Chapter 6 - THE SWAMP AMBUSH
"What did you find?" Mateo asked, stepping closer to the monitors. The fear in his gut was slowly being replaced by a grim curiosity.
"The data packet that triggered the countdown wasn't just sent from Cross's tablet," Thorne explained, pointing at a string of IP addresses on the screen. "It was routed through a secure, private satellite network before bouncing back to the car. A network registered to Vanguard Holdings."
Mateo frowned. "What's Vanguard Holdings?"
"A front company," Thorne sneered, slamming the laptop shut. "Owned by Marcus Vance. A billionaire tech-mogul and my primary political rival. He knew my presidential announcement tomorrow would tank his own ambitions. He didn't just buy my security chief; he bought the entire operation."
"So we go to the police," Mateo said. "You have proof."
"This isn't proof; it's a digital footprint that his lawyers will tie up in court for a decade," Thorne countered, loading a magazine into the Glock. "By then, Vance takes the White House, pardons Cross, and buries us. We need hard evidence. A confession, or the original source code on Cross’s private servers."
Before Mateo could respond, the power in the storage unit died.
The humming of the servers ceased. The lights cut out, plunging them into absolute darkness, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the gaps in the rolling door.
"They found the grid," Thorne hissed, grabbing Mateo and pulling him behind the heavy chassis of the Ford F-150. "Cross didn't track the car. He tracked my biometric ping when I opened the safe. He knew about this place."
Outside, the crunch of gravel echoed through the silent storage yard. Peering underneath the truck, Mateo saw the beams of tactical flashlights sweeping across the concrete, accompanied by the sight of four pairs of combat boots moving in perfect, lethal synchronization.
"Four tangos," Thorne whispered, handing Mateo a heavy metal wrench from a nearby toolbox. "Stay low. If they see you, swing for the knees."
A tear gas canister clattered under the rolling door, hissing violently as thick, acrid white smoke rapidly filled the confined space. Mateo coughed, his eyes burning instantly as the chemical agent seared his lungs.
"Move!" Thorne yelled.
The Governor didn't wait to be cornered. He popped up from behind the truck, firing three rapid shots through the rolling door. A scream of pain outside confirmed a hit. Thorne hit the manual release lever for the garage door and heaved it upward.
Through the stinging smoke, Mateo saw the remaining three mercenaries, dressed in full tactical gear, their weapons raised. But Thorne was ruthless. He didn't hesitate. He shot the nearest man in the chest, the impact dropping the heavy operator to the floor.
"To the truck!" Thorne barked, laying down suppressing fire.
Mateo scrambled into the driver's seat of the F-150, wiping tears and mucus from his burning face. He jammed the keys into the ignition. The old engine sputtered, coughed, and roared to life. Thorne dove into the passenger seat just as a hail of bullets shattered the windshield, raining safety glass over them.
Mateo threw the truck into reverse, slamming the gas pedal. The heavy vehicle blasted out of the storage unit, the rear bumper colliding violently with one of the mercenaries, sending him flying into the chain-link fence.
"Punch it!" Thorne yelled over the deafening gunfire.
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Mateo shifted to drive and tore through the facility, smashing right through the heavy front gates. They burst out onto the road, the truck groaning under the abuse, leaving the remaining mercenaries eating their dust.
"We need that hard evidence," Thorne gasped, bleeding from a superficial glass cut on his cheek. "And I know exactly where Cross is keeping it."
