BEYOND THE RED LINE: THE ADMIRAL'S SEALED ORDERS

The concrete dust exploded in a blinding cloud as three more sniper rounds punched through the wall in rapid succession.

"Move, move, move!" I yelled, shoving Admiral Bennett into the narrow alcove between the server banks as shards of pulverized concrete rained over our heads.

Above us, mounted on the industrial catwalk forty feet up, a marksman was tracking our heat signatures through the corrugated metal flooring. The sharp crack of a high-powered rifle echoed like thunder through the cavernous vault.

Reed, despite the two bullet wounds in his shoulder, used the distraction to roll behind a heavy steel battery bank. Even injured, the man was a physical monster—he clamped his left hand over his bleeding shoulder, grabbed the waterproof duffel bag of hard drives with his teeth, and kicked open the secondary emergency escape hatch leading directly to the drainage tunnels beneath Pier 9.

"He's heading to the docks!" Bennett shouted, returning fire toward the catwalk with his captured carbine. The muzzle flash illuminated the ceiling, forcing the sniper to pull back behind a structural I-beam.

"Take this," I said, handing Bennett my spare magazine. "Hold the stairwell. If Sterling sends reinforcements down from the admin building, bottle them up in the choke point."

"You can't go after Reed alone, Evelyn!" Bennett protested, his eyes wide with concern. "You've got three broken ribs and internal bleeding!"

"If that ship clears the harbor, those engineers are dead and the weapons hit the black market," I replied, chambering a fresh round. "I didn't spend six months living in a moldy barracks room to let this bastard sail away."

Before Bennett could argue, I dove through the low hatchway into the drainage pipe.

The smell of raw saltwater, diesel fuel, and industrial grease hit me instantly. The tide was coming in; cold, black ocean water surged up to my knees, numbing my legs as I waded through the circular concrete conduit. Ahead of me, ripples in the dark water and a trail of crimson droplets marked Reed's frantic escape route.

My ribs burned like a blowtorch was pressed against my side, but I pushed through the pain, forcing my legs into a brutal, rhythmic churn.

After two hundred yards, the pipe opened into the open air beneath Pier 9.

The rain was falling in torrential sheets now, whipping across the black surface of San Diego Bay. Looming directly above me was the massive black hull of the Valkyrie, a three-hundred-foot commercial cargo vessel retrofitted with clandestine satellite domes and heavy crane systems.

The ship’s massive mooring lines were already being cast off. Black smoke poured from the exhaust stacks as the twin diesel engines roared to full power.

On the main deck, standing near the gangway with a radio in his hand, was Captain Garrett Sterling.

And climbing the rusted steel ladder on the side of the hull, trailing blood into the ocean, was Chief Walker Reed.