Page 24 of Love for Thea

Grizzly heard the tremble beneath the command, the raw edge of panic that no amount of authority could hide. Desperation cut through the static, each shouted word sharp with frustration like a man struggling to hold back a flood he could no longer control.

Grizzly looked at the speaker. “No one’s coming, asshole!”

“Reef,” Grizzly said, nodding toward the hangar. “Go. Find him. Don’t let him pull that drill bit till we’re clear.”

Reef disappeared into the mist, a predator on a scent.

As Miller finished the final sequence, the floor gave a violent, sickening lurch. A fresh crack opened in the concrete, hissing with steam.

“That’s it,” Miller gasped, grabbing his jacket. “I’m out!”

“Go!” Grizzly commanded, watching the engineer bolt for the emergency stairs. Ben turned to Thea, ready to protect her, but she grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong.

“No, Ben. Not the hangar,” she said, her clarity returning as the data-stream stabilized. “The main exit is a convection oven now. The pressure we just vented is heading straight for the hangar floor. If we go out that way, we’re walking into a furnace.”

The lab doors hissed open, and Reef backed into the room, his Glock leveled at the empty hallway. Smoke curled off his tactical vest, and his face was flushed a deep, heat-scorched red.

“She’s right, Grizz,” Reef panted, his voice a bit raspy. “I couldn’t even reach the bay. The floor is buckled and the air is 200 degrees. The Principal is already on the service lift to the ridge. We’re cut off.”

“Then where?”

Thea pointed toward the darkened corner of the lab, behind a stack of rusted equipment crates.

“Data point: The 1920s drainage shaft. When they built this facility, they built it over an old silver mine. The shaft is carved into solid granite. It’s stable, and it’s a direct vertical to the North Ridge: less than a half-mile from the landing pad.”

Ben looked at the heavy iron grate she pointed to. It was ancient, covered in layers of industrial grime, but based on Reef’s report, it was the only way out.

“You’re the navigator, Thea,” Ben said, pulling the grate from the floor with a roar of pure, rancher-bred fury. He looked into the dark, damp hole. “Into the shaft. Thea first. I’m right behind you. Stay between me and the wall.”

“I’ve got the six,” Reef added. He clicked his light on, the beam cutting a sharp path into the depths. He paused for a fraction of a second, his eyes tracking a new fissure spidering across the lab floor. He tightened his grip on his sidearm, his voice dropping to a raspy, private whisper. “Time to get out of Mexico.”

As they dropped into the darkness, the intercom crackled one last time. It wasn’t Thorne this time; it was the sound of the mountain: a deep, resonant hooting sound as the steam found the new vents they had created.

“Hoot. Hoot. Hoot,” Thea whispered in the dark, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Just like the robin, Benji. We’re in the nest.”

THIRTEEN

THE RANCH

01:45 Hours (Day 2) (Time Elapsed: 09 hours, 15 minutes)

Mace sat at his father’s old oak desk, but the home office had been fully replaced by a Tier 1 Combat Information Center. To his left, Logan was slaved to the satellite feeds, his fingers a blur across a secondary keyboard. To his right, the speakers hummed with the digital-blender rasp of Tex, a man who didn’t exist on any map but currently held the eyes of the world in his hands.

But the real effort in the room was the team prepping behind him.

Picasso cinched a combat belt over his jeans, his eyes fixed on a ruggedized tablet Mace had mirrored for him. Beside him, Hurricane, Falcon, and Wyatt checked the seals on tactical respirators and loaded high-grain magazines into suppressed rifles. They moved with a silent, lethal economy of motion, the vacation mindset stripped away and replaced by the cold focus of a mission lead.

Mace keyed his mic, his voice dropping into the flat, clinical cadence of a Naval Intelligence comms lead.

“All stations, this is Ranch Lead. Establishing the Net. Picasso, check your link.”

Picasso clicked his headset, his voice a low vibration that grounded the room. “Ranch Lead, this is Atlantic One. We’re wheels-up in Carole’s Ram truck in sixty seconds. Wyatt is on point for medical. Falcon and Hurricane providing the perimeter. We’re heading for the Stone Ribs trailhead.”

“Wait,” Commander Rachel Bennett’s voice cut onto the secure channel from the East Coast. “Atlantic One, the USGS has declared Sector C5 a Level 4 Hazard Zone. You’re entering a geothermal kill-box without high-heat suits. This is a voluntary push, Senior Chief. You understand the risk?”

Picasso looked at Ronald Adams, who was standing by the door with a crate of extra ammo. The retired Sergeant gave a single, grim nod.

Picasso looked back at Mace. “Commander, we aren’t going in blind. Wolf’s drop is down at the Needle. We’re going to hit that ridge, gear up in the high-heat suits, and then move to the culvert exit. We’ll intercept Grizzly and the doc before they break the surface. We aren’t leaving our boys to the mountain.”