Chapter 8 - The Manor Extraction
The federal convoy tore through the predawn darkness of State Highway 130, sirens screaming at ninety miles per hour. Behind them, the city lights of Austin faded into the flat, scrub-oak horizon of rural Manor.
Inside the armored black Suburban, Mariela sat between two heavily geared SWAT operators, studying the schematics on an encrypted ruggedized tablet. Beside her, Special Agent Cross was coordinating via satellite comms with teams descending simultaneously on the sites in Buda and Pflugerville.
"Team Two has breached the Pflugerville location," Cross’s headset crackled with the voice of the tactical commander. "Structure is clear. No human presence found. It looks like an abandoned staging facility. Stored supplies, but no cells. I repeat, Pflugerville is negative."
Mariela leaned forward, zooming in on the satellite overlay of the Manor coordinate. "That leaves Buda and Manor. But look at the power draw on the Manor grid, Agent Cross."
Cross peered at the thermal telemetry feed. "It's pulling forty kilowatts. That's massive for an agricultural barn."
"He's running heavy environmental scrubbers," Mariela said, her pulse pounding in her ears. "The Buda property is just an empty storage lot—there’s no municipal water hookup listed on the county auditor’s database. Manor is where he put the core facility. The others are just diversions."
Cross tapped his radio mic. "All units, divert primary assets to Coordinate Three in Manor. Target is an agricultural outbuilding at 11400 Old Kimbro Road. Suspect automated perimeter defenses. Move with lethal posture."
Five minutes later, the convoy turned off the paved county road onto a rutted gravel lane that snaked through thick cedar brakes. At the end of the quarter-mile drive stood a dilapidated corrugated-tin barn, surrounded by rusted farm equipment and overgrown weeds. It looked entirely abandoned, the kind of derelict rural Texas property that passed unnoticed by thousands of drivers every day.
The vehicles killed their sirens and lights three hundred yards out, coasting to a halt on the soft dirt shoulder.
"Go, go, go," Cross whispered.
Twelve tactical operators fanned out into a standard diamond formation, moving silently through the tall grass with suppressed carbines raised. Mariela followed directly behind the point-man, her service weapon drawn, tactical light mounted beneath the barrel.
As they reached the rusted barn doors, the point-man held up a closed fist.
Tripwires.
Two monofilament wires were stretched taut across the threshold at ankle height, wired directly to military-surplus phosphorus grenades taped to the doorframe.
"Failsafe antipersonnel," the breacher muttered, pulling heavy wire cutters from his tactical vest. With agonizing slowness, he clamped the jaws over the wire, severing the tension without triggering the spring-loaded pins.
They breached through the secondary side entrance.
The interior of the barn was a hollow shell. No tractors, no hay bales. In the center of the dirt floor was an industrial hydraulic lift platform, large enough to lower a full-sized pickup truck fifty feet straight down into the limestone bedrock.
Beside the lift platform, an electronic control console was blinking violently in bright amber:
SYSTEM PURGE INITIATED: 00:18:45.
ATMOSPHERIC INVERSION IN PROGRESS.
"He’s not just cutting the air," Mariela gasped, recognizing the industrial sequence from Arthur Vance’s work manuals. "He’s reversing the intake fans. He’s pumping the exhaust from the auxiliary diesel generators directly down into the living quarters to erase the evidence!"
"Can we drop the platform?" Cross yelled, inspecting the control bank.
"Negative, the hydraulic lines have been severed from below," the breacher replied, shining his light down into the vertical shaft. "The only way down is the maintenance ladder."
Fifty feet of vertical rusted iron rungs, descending straight into a chimney of rising, suffocating carbon monoxide.
May you like
Mariela strapped a portable emergency oxygen rebreather over her face, securing the elastic straps behind her Kevlar helmet. "I'm going down. Cover me from the rim."
Before Cross could object, Mariela slung her carbine across her chest and swung her boots over the precipice, descending into the dark, poisonous abyss of Arthur Vance's secondary kingdom.
