Chapter 45 - The Blood of the Wolf
The keystroke felt like pulling a trigger.
I slammed the palm of my hand down on the mechanical execution switch beneath the server monitor. A deafening electronic pulse screeched through the terminal as forty-two petabytes of unredacted ledgers, offshore banking shell registries, and illegal patent-hoarding documentation detonated across every public server, regulatory terminal, and financial exchange from Tokyo to New York.
Above our heads, the ceiling groaned violently. A muffled explosion blew the outer hinges off the vault's blast doors, filling the access tunnel with blinding dust and smoke.
"Drainage shaft! Go!" Julian yelled, ripping the iron grate from the floor with a crowbar from the tactical locker.
He lowered me into the dark, rushing waters of the subterranean canal before dropping down beside me. We hit the waist-deep current just as a secondary blast tore through the vault above, consuming the server bank in a blinding fireball of white-hot thermite.
We plunged through the freezing water, Julian guiding us with a tactical flashlight through centuries-old stone channels. Two hundred yards down the canal, the low rumble of an electric outboard motor echoed against the stone arches.
Two of Julian’s extraction operatives leaned over the gunwale of a low-profile tactical zodiac, hauling us out of the icy sludge.
"Madame Clara, Lord Julian! We have you," the lead operative barked. "Perimeter status: Vienna is in total lockdown. Police, Interpol, and military units are descending on the mint. The leaked files caused an immediate trading halt on the Frankfurt and London exchanges."
I sat in the bow of the boat, gasping for air, wrapped in a thermal blanket Julian draped over my shivering shoulders. My hands were shaking, but not from the cold.
I opened the encrypted tablet Thorne’s relay had synced to my wrist. The global financial news networks were melting down in real-time:
*BREAKING: MASSIVE DATA BREACH EXPOSES 'OUROBOROS' SYNDICATE. ARREST WARRANTS ISSUED FOR SIXTEEN MULTINATIONAL PHARMACEUTICAL AND DEFENSE EXECUTIVES.*
"Julian," I said, pointing at the bottom corner of the monitor. "Mother's location ping. It went dark."
Julian glanced at the tracking map. The London safehouse coordinates Helena had used were flashing red, followed by a sudden flatline telemetry code.
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"She went to ground," Julian said carefully. "Or she was taken before the blast cleared."
"She didn't run," I replied, staring at the flashing red beacon. "She left us a secondary coordinate. Look at the timestamp. It’s an airfield in the Scottish Highlands. She knew they’d come for her in London—she wasn't the bait. She was the executioner."
