Trent grunted, the air rushing from his lungs. He stumbled backward, swinging his flashlight like a club.
I ducked under the heavy metal cylinder, stepped inside his guard, and drove my elbow up into his jaw. His head snapped back, and he hit the concrete wall hard.
He was stunned, but he was a massive man. He roared in anger, throwing a wild, desperate punch that caught my shoulder, sending me skidding across the floor.
“You crazy bitch!” he spat, pulling his gun free.
He aimed at my chest.
I didn't hesitate. I kicked a heavy metal trash can directly at his knees. He fired, the bullet sparking harmlessly against the concrete above my head. The trash can hit his shins, throwing him off balance just long enough for me to scramble to my feet, close the gap, and disarm him.
I twisted his wrist until he screamed, the gun clattering to the floor. I kicked it away, then swept his legs, sending him crashing onto his back.
He tried to sit up.
I slammed my boot down on his chest, pinning him to the floor, my combat knife resting an inch from his eye.
Trent froze, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a mixture of rage and sudden, terrifying realization. He was finally looking at me and seeing exactly what I was.
“Who the hell are you?” he gasped.
I didn't answer. I reached down, ripped the Velcro pocket of his tactical pants open, and pulled out the thick, black Level Five keycard.
I held it up in the dim light, the red clearance stripe visible.
“I’m the ghost you left behind in Eastern Europe,” I whispered.
Trent’s face drained of color. The realization hit him like a physical blow. He looked at the knife, then at my eyes, and he finally understood.
I didn't kill him. Death was too easy. I wanted him to rot in a federal black site.
I slammed the hilt of my knife into his temple. Trent’s eyes rolled back, and his body went limp.
I stood up, breathing heavily, the black keycard tight in my fist.
I turned and walked through the broken doors into Sector Four.
It was time to finish this.
CHAPTER 4
The server room was freezing, the air conditioning working overtime to keep the massive mainframes cool.
I swiped Trent’s Level Five keycard. The reader flashed green, and the heavy door hissed open.
I stepped inside, my boots echoing slightly on the raised metal floor.
This was it. The nerve center of Blackwood Tactical.
I walked to the primary terminal, sliding into the leather chair. I inserted my flash drive and began typing rapidly, bypassing the standard login screens. With Trent’s master credentials, the system practically opened its doors for me.
I initiated a mass download of the outgoing encrypted logs.
Files began to cascade across the screen. Financial transfers to offshore accounts. Communications with black-market brokers. And the blueprints. Dozens of them. Safe houses, embassy security layouts, patrol routes.
He was selling the entire network.
The progress bar on the screen ticked upward.
40%... 50%...
Suddenly, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered and died. The only light remaining in the room was the blue glow of the server racks and the pale light of my monitor.
The heavy steel door at the entrance of the room slammed shut with a deafening metallic echo.
The magnetic lock engaged with a heavy thud.