Chapter 5 - The Counter-Protocol
The simultaneous shrill of a hundred emergency override signals pierced the cabin, causing the tactical operatives to stumble backward, clutching their tactical headsets in agony. The high-frequency feedback loop was designed specifically to disrupt encrypted military-grade comms.
"System override! Disconnect your units!" one of the operatives shouted over the screeching audio, dropping his rifle to grab at his helmet.
I didn't hesitate. Seizing the chaos, I grabbed the heavy manila envelope off the table, yanked Becca by the arm, and dove through the shattered, glassless kitchen window into the deep snow outside. The cold hit my skin like a wall of needles, but adrenaline kept me moving.
"Leo! Over here!" Marcus’s voice rasped from the shadows near the back of the cabin.
He wasn't dead; he had managed to roll behind the heavy frame of the wood-burning stove during the blast. He tossed me a set of keys with a bleeding hand. "My truck’s tires are blown, but the quad bikes are parked in the shed behind the woodpile. Go! Now!"
Behind us, Mom’s voice cut through the electronic squeal, sharp and furious. "Don't let them reach the ridge! Cut them off!"
Heavy boots crunched in the snow. Gunfire cracked through the trees, a suppressed weapon chewing splinters out of the cabin's exterior wall. We didn't look back. We scrambled through the waist-deep snow toward the wooden shed, the cold air burning our lungs with every gasping breath.
I kicked open the flimsy shed door. Two all-terrain quad bikes sat inside, their keys dangling in the ignition.
"Get on behind me, Becca! Hold on to my waist and don't let go, no matter what!" I yelled over the roar of the wind.
She scrambled onto the back, her arms locking around me like a vise. I hit the ignition button, and the engine roared to life with a mechanical growl. I slammed the shifter into gear and cranked the throttle, sending the quad bike blasting through the wooden back wall of the shed in a shower of old planks and snow.
We rocketed out onto the narrow mountain ridge trail just as two tactical operatives emerged from the tree line behind us, their rifles raised.
Bullets whined past our ears, snapping branches and kicking up sprays of white powder. I swerved the quad bike wildly, sliding across patches of black ice as we rocketed deeper into the dense pine forest. The trail narrowed into a steep, treacherous drop-off on one side, winding higher up the mountain toward an old, decommissioned fire lookout tower Dad had mentioned in his notes.
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If we could reach the tower, Marcus’s emergency transponder beacon could be activated—a broadcast frequency that would automatically alert federal cyber-crimes division agents monitoring international asset laundering rings.
We weren't running anymore. We were carrying the proof to take the whole operation down.
