Chapter 8 - INFILTRATION AT BLACKTHORN
The rain was torrential, hammering against the rusted corrugated roof of the Blackthorn Chemical industrial park on the outskirts of New Haven.
Steam rose from the cooling towers, masking our thermal signatures as Nathan and I scaled the perimeter fence using rubberized grappling lines.
"Thermal scan shows eight guards on the ground floor, four on the catwalks, and two technicians inside the primary laboratory," I whispered, tapping my optic monocle.
"You take the surveillance control room," Nathan instructed, racking the slide of his suppressed pistol. "I’ll take the floor."
"Nathan," I grabbed his arm, holding his eyes in the rainy dark. "We need the lead chemist alive. Dr. Klaus Richter. If you shoot him, the synthesis algorithm dies with him."
Nathan held my gaze for a long moment. His hand moved over mine, giving it a brief, firm squeeze. "I trust your judgment, Sarah. Don't die in there."
We split up.
I slipped through the secondary HVAC intake on the eastern roof—ironic, considering the weapon that had brought us here. I dropped silently onto the catwalk, landing without a sound behind an armed sentry.
Before the guard could turn, I wrapped my arm around his throat in a sleeper hold, pinching the carotid artery. He went limp in four seconds. I dragged him behind the industrial air scrubbers, stripped his keycard, and accessed the lab’s security hub.
Down below, Nathan moved like an apex predator.
He didn't fire wildly. Every shot from his suppressed weapon was calculated, precise, and lethal. Two guards fell near the chemical vats before they even realized the perimeter had been breached.
I typed rapidly into the security terminal, bypassing the biometric lock on the basement laboratory door just as Nathan reached the threshold.
The reinforced titanium door hissed open.
Inside, Dr. Klaus Richter—a nervous, gaunt man in a white hazmat suit—was frantically shoving glass vials into an incinerator chute.
"Stop!" I yelled, raising my weapon.
Richter spun around, holding a high-pressure glass canister filled with a glowing amber liquid above his head.
"Stay back!" Richter screamed in a thick European accent. "One drop of this pure concentration on the floor and everyone in this room dies of acute neurotoxicity in thirty seconds!"
Nathan stepped into the lab, his gun trained squarely on Richter's forehead. "Put it down, Richter."
"You don't understand!" Richter shrieked. "The Castigliones have my family! If I give you this synthesis key, they will execute my daughter!"
"Your daughter is safe," I said calmly, stepping forward with my hands visible. "Roman intercepted the safehouse in Queens twenty minutes ago. She's in a private jet heading for Toronto right now."
Richter’s hands shook violently. "You... you're lying!"
I held up my phone, playing a five-second video feed of a young teenage girl sitting safely inside a luxury private cabin, drinking hot chocolate beside Roman.
Tears sprang to the chemist's eyes. The crushing tension drained from his shoulders.
Slowly, carefully, Richter lowered the canister and placed it on the stainless steel counter. He pulled an encrypted flash drive from his pocket and laid it beside the vial.
"The complete synthesis logs," Richter sobbed, falling to his knees. "And the full therapeutic chelation formula. It will reverse the cellular damage in seventy-two hours."
Nathan grabbed the drive and the vial, securing them in a shockproof tactical case.
"Thank you, Doctor," Nathan said. "Now get on that plane to Toronto and never return to this country."
Suddenly, the compound’s sirens blared a deafening alert.
RED CONFLICT PROTOCOL INITIATED.
Over the facility's PA system, a smooth, mocking voice echoed through the concrete halls.
"Nathan Coleman. How predictable of you to come in person."
May you like
It was Don Lorenzo Castiglione.
"You walk out into the courtyard alone, Nathan, or my heavy artillery levels this entire chemical plant with you and your little nanny inside."
