Page 17 of Love for Thea

“Follow that dot. It’s heading for an old mining hangar near the Stone Ribs. Tell Picasso to keep his head on a swivel. If Vanguard realizes that either Wolf or Picasso is coming, they won’t just move the prisoners; they’ll erase the site entirely.”

The line went dead. Picasso’s smirk vanished, replaced by the hard, iron focus of a Senior Chief. He looked at the twins, then toward the hallway where Wyatt was talking to a neighbor.

“Logan, go get Wyatt. Tell him to grab his PJ kit and the long-range trauma bag. If Grizzly and Reef are in a Vanguard facility, they are going to be more than just bruised. I want him on point the second we breach.”

Before Mace could respond, the door to the office creaked open, and Ronald Adams stepped into the room.

The jovial rancher, the man who had spent the last two hours laughing at jokes and flipping burgers at the grill, was gone. In his place stood the retired Army Sergeant who had raised eight children, a man with a backbone of steel and a moral compass that didn’t waver. It was the version of their father they’d only seen a few times growing up, usually when one of the kids had crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.

Mace and Logan instinctively straightened their shoulders, their own military posture snapping in place.

“Mace. Logan. Do what the Senior Chief said,” Ronald commanded. It wasn’t a request; it was an order issued from a man who had led men long before his sons were born. “Logan, get Wyatt and the trauma gear. Mace, stay on that board and don’t lose that pinger. Move.”

The twins didn’t argue. They didn’t ask questions. Logan bolted for the hallway to intercept the Air Force PJ, while Mace turned back to the desk, his fingers already flying across the keys to stabilize the Net with Tex.

Ronald turned his gaze to Picasso. “Senior Chief, a word.”

Picasso followed Ronald out of the house and toward the old barn. The gravitas of the older man’s presence was palpable. Inside, Ronald walked to a heavy hydraulic tractor lift in the corner. He pulled a remote from his pocket and hit a sequence. The floor beneath the lift descended, revealing a section of concrete that seamed away perfectly.

“My boys don’t think I listen,” Ronald said as they stepped onto the descending platform. “They’ve been talking for two years about starting a Black Ops firm. Looking for a silo to buy. I figured if they’re going to operate in the gray, they’d better have gear that doesn’t have a paper trail.”

The lift settled into a brightly lit, climate-controlled bunker that smelled of gun oil and fresh electronics. Picasso’s eyes widened as he took in the racks of sanitized HK416s and Level IV ceramic plates.

“I’ve been buying it piece by piece from my old contacts in the 5th Special Forces Group,” Ronald said, handing Picasso a suppressed rifle. He looked the Senior Chief in the eye, his gaze as steady as a sniper’s. “Benji left that robin in the nest fourteen years ago because he trusted me to keep it safe. I failed him today. Don’t you fail him tonight.”

Picasso gripped the rifle, the weight familiar and grounding. “We’re moving, Ronald. And we’re bringing them home.”

“Good,” Ronald said, handing him a ruggedized tablet. “This is linked to a private satellite uplink. Bypasses the local grid entirely. Tell your ‘Tex’ friend he has an open door. Now move. Before Marjorie figures out what’s really under the barn.”

EIGHT

THEA

23:45 Hours (Time Elapsed: 07 hours, 15 minutes)

In the sub-level of the Vanguard facility the mountain smell had been replaced with recycled air, scorched copper, and the frantic, electric ozone of machinery being pushed past its breaking point. The air itself felt thin, vibrating with a low thrum that settled deep in Thea’s bones.

Thea stood in the center of the command hub, her hands still trembling beneath the oversized sleeves of Ben’s jacket. They had removed her zip-ties ten minutes ago, not out of kindness, but out of a desperate need for her expertise. The sudden freedom of her hands felt less like liberation and more like an added sensory input her overstimulated brain struggled to process. The three technicians in the room were staring at a wall of monitors with the glazed, hollow-eyed look of men who had long since abandoned hope, replaced by a dull, horrifying comprehension of their impending doom.

Instinctively, Thea’s right hand found her left wrist. Her fingers pressed hard into the pulse point, seeking the familiar, rhythmic anchor.

Data point: My heart rate is 112 bpm.

Data point: The cooling intake on Monitor 4 is failing at a rate of 15% per minute.

Data point: We are all going to die.

This last data point, chillingly objective, didn’t evoke panic; it sharpened her focus.

“Dr. Wynn!”

The voice belonged to a lead engineer named Miller. She’d cataloged the name on his grimy ID badge the moment she was brought in. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He pointed a shaking finger at a scrolling red graph: the output of the acoustic resonators.

“The drill is hitting a feedback loop. We’re punching through the granite cap, but the pressure in the cavity below is—it’s not following the models.” His voice broke, a raw sound that grated on Thea’s ears.

“Your models are based on static mineral deposits,” Thea said, unaware that her voice came out thin but still carried the clinical sharpness of incontrovertible truth. She forced her fingers to let go of her wrist and stepped toward the screen. The flickering data was a language she understood. “You think you're drilling into a mine, but you’re drilling into a closed-loop hydrothermal system. A living, breathing geological entity.”

“Explain,” Miller snapped, his eyes wide with a dawning, unwelcome understanding.