Vance slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and the Mach-E's dual motors roared with a high-pitched electric whine, the car's 0-60 speed leaving the remaining two SUVs in a cloud of tire smoke and shattered glass. He wove through the final stretch of airport traffic with reckless precision, screeching the battered, bullet-riddled Mustang into the restricted access zone near the private hangars.
The car hadn't even come to a full stop before Vlad and Vance bolted out. They didn't look back at the smoking wreckage of their getaway car. With the silver flash drive secured against Vlad's chest, they sprinted across the tarmac, their boots thundering against the asphalt.
Waiting for them at the end of the runway was the Red Jet, its engines already screaming as they reached a high-idle whine. The boarding ramp was lowered just inches from the ground.
"Move! Move!" Vance shouted, glancing back to see the black SUVs breaching the airport perimeter fence in the distance.
They reached the ramp, leaping into the pressurized cabin just as the jet began its taxi. The heavy door hissed shut, sealing out the sound of the Nashville wind and the chaos they had left behind. Vlad collapsed into a leather seat, his chest heaving, his hand instinctively checking the flash drive one last time. They were airborne seconds later, the steep climb pinning them into their chairs as the Tennessee landscape shrank into a blur of green and gray.
The Red Jet cut through the clouds, descending toward a secluded, high-security airfield on the outskirts of Chesterfield, Missouri. As the plane leveled out, the Spirit of St. Louis Airport faded into the distance, replaced by a massive, unmarked sprawling complex tucked behind a dense curtain of Missouri oak and limestone bluffs.
This was The Forge, the Agency's primary headquarters.
The jet touched down with a smooth chirp of rubber on the private runway. As the engines began their high-pitched wind-down, a fleet of armored black sedans swarmed the aircraft. The cabin door hissed open, and the humid, heavy Missouri air rushed in.
The Arrival at The Forge
Vlad and Vance stepped onto the tarmac, their faces grim and set. They were immediately flanked by a team of "Cleaners"—agents in gray tactical suits who took their gear and escorted them toward the main elevator bank disguised as a utility shed.
* The Descent: The elevator didn't go up; it plummeted thirty stories into the earth. When the doors opened, they were greeted by the hum of a subterranean city. The walls were reinforced carbon-fiber, glowing with recessed blue LED strips that marked the different sectors: Intel, Armory, and Bio-Tech.
* The Atmosphere: The air here was recycled and chilled, smelling faintly of sterile equipment and high-end server cooling systems. Dozens of analysts moved with quiet urgency, their eyes glued to holographic displays monitoring global threats.
Meeting the General Manager
They reached the end of a long, obsidian-walled corridor. Two biometric scanners flashed green as they approached the heavy steel doors of the "War Room."
Standing at the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the main server farm was Tom. In the harsh, artificial light of the headquarters, his "Superman" features looked even more intimidating. The scar across his nose was a jagged white line against his tan skin, and his green eyes seemed to glow with a predatory intelligence as he turned to face them.
"You're late," Tom said, his voice echoing in the vast room like a crack of thunder. He didn't look at their bruised faces or their torn tactical suits; his gaze went straight to the silver flash drive in Vlad's hand. "But I suppose the fireball in Nashville was a decent excuse. Give it to me."
Vlad stepped forward, the silence of the room heavy as he placed the drive into Tom's outstretched hand.