Chapter 7 - THE RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK00:03... 00:02...
There was no time to run. There was no time to negotiate.
Isaac dropped the rifle, grabbed the heavy metallic briefcase off the pinned operative's chest with both hands, and hurled it with every ounce of his military-conditioned strength straight through the reinforced glass window of the abandoned house's living room.
BOOM!
The shockwave tore through the room like a localized earthquake. Shattered glass, splintered wood, and blinding white fire erupted outward, scorching the front lawn and knocking Isaac backward off the porch into the soft grass.
The heat wave washed over him instantly, singeing the edges of his tactical jacket and filling the air with the acrid stench of industrial plastic explosive.
For a moment, the world went completely silent, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in Isaac's ears.
He shook his head, clearing the dust and debris from his eyes, and pushed himself up to one foot. His left shoulder throbbed where the concussive blast had caught him, but every limb was still functional.
"Report!" Isaac shouted into his wrist communicator, activating the encrypted tactical channel. "Status on perimeter!"
A static-heavy voice crackled back instantly through his earpiece: "Colonel! We read a massive explosive signature at sector four! Are you hit? Do you require immediate medevac?"
"Negative! I'm functional!" Isaac barked back, wiping soot from his forehead as he broke back into a run toward the street. "That was a localized dead-man charge. They tried to burn the evidence, which means there's a primary data server nearby that they desperately didn't want us to find!"
"Understood, sir! We're sweeping the surrounding properties now!"
Isaac didn't wait for them to finish the sweep. His military instincts told him exactly where a high-level corporate syndicate would stash physical backups and hard drives during an active op: not in a warehouse, not in a home, but in a mobile command vehicle of their own—disguised as something entirely ordinary.
His eyes scanned the cul-de-sac.
Parked neatly at the far end of the street, tucked quietly beneath the low-hanging branches of a massive oak tree, was a neutral-colored utility van with local commercial plumbing logos painted on the side panels.
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The engine was running. Faint white exhaust plumed from the tailpipe into the crisp night air.
Isaac drew his sidearm, checked the chamber with a quiet, practiced click, and began moving swiftly along the shadow of the hedge rows toward the van.
