Chapter 4 - FIRE AT SECTOR FOURThe VH-60N banked hard over the sun-bleached rooftops of Camp Pendleton’s senior officer housing district. Sector Four looked peaceful enough from three hundred feet—neat rows of stucco homes, manicured lawns, and American flags snapping lazily in the offshore breeze.
Except for the black, acrid column of smoke billowing out from the chimney and windows of Quarters 12-B.
"They're burning the paper trail!" I shouted over the screaming rotor wash, checking the slide of my Sig Sauer P226 as I chambered a round.
"We’ve got armed hostiles exiting the rear patio!" the pilot's voice crackled through the headset. "Marking three individuals in civilian gear carrying military-issue Pelican cases!"
"Drop us on the roof!" Vance ordered, pulling a compact submachine gun from a overhead rack with practiced ease. "Don't let them reach the tree line!"
The helicopter didn't land; it hovered three feet above the terracotta tiles of Blackwood’s Spanish-style quarters. The downdraft ripped loose shingles away like autumn leaves. I kicked open the cabin door, grabbed the nylon hand-strap, and vaulted out onto the roof, hitting the tiles in a low tactical roll.
Vance dropped right behind me, his carbine raised.
Through the skylight, I could see two men frantically tossing thick stacks of paper into a stone fireplace while a third man hacked away at a heavy-duty safe anchored to the study wall with an angle grinder. Sparks showered across the hardwood floor in a brilliant, blinding spray.
"Federal agents! Drop your weapons!" I roared, shattering the glass of the skylight with the butt of my rifle and dropping straight down into the smoke-filled room.
The man with the angle grinder spun around, his eyes wide with panic. He didn't drop his tool; instead, he swung the heavy spinning disc directly toward my midsection.
I ducked under the lethal arc, stepped inside his guard, and drove the butt of my Sig hard into his solar plexus. He folded like a cheap lawn chair, gasping for air as he crashed onto the burning papers scattered across the floor.
The other two men scrambled for pistols tucked into their waistbands.
Bang! Bang!
Vance’s suppressed carbine coughed twice from the skylight above. Both men dropped their weapons, clutching their shoulders as they hit the floor, howling in pain.
"Clear!" Vance shouted, dropping down through the opening with athletic grace. He kicked a smoking pistol away from one of the wounded operatives and zip-tied his hands behind his back in three seconds flat.
I rushed to the heavy safe. The angle grinder had cut halfway through the primary locking mechanism before we crashed the party. Through the gap, I could see rows of micro-cassettes, encrypted flash drives, and a thick leather-bound ledger stamped with the seal of the Ministry of State Security.
"Got it," I breathed, sliding my fingers into the gap and prying the charred metal door open.
"Good," Vance said, checking his watch. "Because we have a bigger problem. Look at the timestamp on that laptop on the desk."
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I glanced over. The laptop was still connected to an open satellite uplink, its screen flashing a single line of text: Data package transmitted successfully. Destination: Beijing Server Node 4.
We were too late. The core intelligence had already left American soil.
