Chapter 4 - Blood on the BridgeWe ascended through the crew-only service elevators, using the stolen security keycard to bypass the biometric locks. Every floor we passed brought us closer to the command deck, where the sterile hum of navigation equipment replaced the deafening roar of the engines.
When the elevator chimed softly and the doors slid open to the seventh-floor corridor leading to the bridge, we found ourselves facing a heavy steel security door guarded by two men in civilian suits.
They spotted us instantly.
“Hey! You’re not authorized—!”
The first guard reached for his hip holster, but I was already moving. I hurled the aluminum bat down the narrow hallway like a javelin. It caught him squarely in the chest with bone-rattling impact, knocking the wind out of him and sending him crashing backward against the fire alarm console.
The second guard drew a pistol, raising it toward my face.
I didn’t hesitate. I closed the distance in a explosive burst of speed, batted his wrist upward just as the gun discharged—sending a stray bullet shattering into the acoustic ceiling tiles—and drove my elbow violently into his sternum.
He gasped, dropping his weapon, and I swept his legs out from under him, slamming his head against the reinforced floor.
Elena rushed past me, retrieving the aluminum bat from the groaning guard on the wall. Her hands were shaking violently, but her determination was unbreakable. “The bridge door is biometric and digital keypad locked! We can’t get in!”
“Step back,” I said.
I grabbed the security guard’s radio headset, ripped the lithium-ion battery pack from its housing, and wedged it directly into the digital keypad’s maintenance port, short-circuiting the circuit board with a loud electrical pop and a shower of orange sparks.
The heavy steel door buzzed loudly and clicked open.
With a hard kick, I shoved the door wide and stepped onto the bridge.
The ship’s captain spun around from his navigation console, his face draining of all color as he stared down the barrel of the guard’s dropped pistol in my hand. Beside him stood Robert Hartman, who had just been watching the radar displays.
Robert’s eyes widened in genuine shock, his composure cracking for the very first time.
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“Ashly…” Robert breathed, taking a slow step backward. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re destroying your own life.”
“No, Robert,” I said, stepping forward with the cold, unyielding authority of a Marine commander. “I’m ending yours.”
