Chapter 45 - Cap Corse Infiltration
The black cliffs of Cap Corse rose out of the foaming surf like the jagged teeth of a sea monster. The storm that had battered Monaco had followed us south across the Ligurian Sea, tearing through the Mediterranean with thirty-knot winds and blinding sheets of rain.
Our helicopter had touched down on a deserted gravel spit three miles north of the coordinates Henry provided. Leaving Astrid under the protection of Christian’s elite medical escort at a secure rendezvous point in Bastia, Henry, Christian, and I traversed the razor-sharp limestone paths on foot, cloaked in black tactical rain gear.
"The entrance is submerged at high tide," Henry panted, leaning heavily against a walking staff Christian had improvised from a piece of salvage. His endurance was failing, but his will was forged in steel. "There is an old maintenance ventilation tunnel near the lighthouse above. But Eleanor’s private security will have it rigged with motion sensors and infrared tripwires."
"Let them watch," Christian said, pulling a compact military scanner from his vest. "The blackout works both ways. Their primary sensor grid relies on external satellite uplinks that are currently scrambled. They’re running on local generator power."
We reached the base of an ancient stone lighthouse that stood sentinel over the crashing surf. Behind its crumbling foundation lay a heavy, rusted steel hatch embedded directly into the cliff rock, bearing the faded seal of the Marine Nationale.
Christian dropped to one knee, examining the electronic keypad wired crudely over the historical lock. "Military-grade encryption. It would take my team thirty minutes to bypass."
"Move," I said, stepping forward.
I reached out and placed my thumb against the biometric pad. The scanner flashed red once, paused, and then emitted a dull, green chime. The heavy hydraulic bolts inside the door slid back with a sickening grind.
Christian looked at me in disbelief. "How?"
"Eleanor is a narcissist," I said, my voice dripping with venom. "She believes in bloodline above all else. When she designed this shelter thirty years ago, she coded my infant DNA into the primary override protocols. She thought of me as her ultimate heirloom—an extension of her own will. She never imagined that the daughter she tried to groom would be the one holding the scalpel to cut her throat."
We slipped through the hatch, sealing the heavy iron behind us. The air inside smelled of stale diesel, copper, and salt-crusted concrete. A long, cavernous tunnel sloped downward into the bowels of the mountain, illuminated only by dim red emergency strips running along the damp floor.
Far below, the low, rhythmic hum of industrial turbine generators vibrated through the rock.
"Listen," Henry whispered, raising a hand.
Faint echoes drifted up the shaft. Voices barking orders in rapid German and French, followed by the distinctive clatter of heavy weaponry being armed. Eleanor had spared no expense; she had brought in high-tier European mercenaries to fortify her final redoubt.
"Christian, can we cut their power?" I asked quietly.
"If I reach the auxiliary transformer room," Christian nodded, checking the chamber of his suppressed submachine gun. "I can plunge the lower bunker into total sensory blackout. But you and Henry will have to bypass the central security corridor alone."
"Do it," I told him, looking him in the eye. "Cut the throat of their power grid. When the dark comes, Henry and I will be waiting inside the operations deck."
Christian reached out, his gloved fingers brushing my cheek. "Don't let her get in your head, Claire. She knows your triggers. She built them."
May you like
"She built the girl Julian tried to humiliate," I answered, feeling the cold, predatory calm settle over my soul. "She didn't build the woman standing in front of you."
***
