Hang in there, baby,I repeat the words over and over like a silent prayer.I’m coming for you.
***
In less than five minutes, the guys are back. We step into the elevator, and yes, it’s massive. Easily big enough to hold six guys, all over six-three and built like linebackers, without anyone having to squeeze.
As soon as we’re inside, Kai pulls out a sleek access card and swipes it through a panel on the wall. A calm, slightly robotic female voice responds.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kingston. What can I do for you?”
“Good afternoon, K.A.L.I,” Kai says smoothly. “Take us to The Den, please.”
“Of course,”the voice replies, cool, polished, like something straight out of an Avengers movie.
The elevator hums to life and begins its descent.
“Incredible how far technology’s come,” Gabriel says, glancing around as the walls flicker with faint interface lights.
Kai nods. “Yeah, and we make sure we’ve got the best of it. Keller and I keep everything upgraded. Cutting-edge security, bleeding-edge tech. Nothing less. Our lives, and others, depend on it.”
“Gentlemen, step up to the panel so K.A.L.I can scan your faces and log your full names,” Keller instructs.
“The system won’t grant access to the armory without both biometric ID and our confirmation. It detects how many people enter the elevator and the anteroom. If they fail to identify themselves and are not confirmed by members of our team, the armory remains locked and an external alert is triggered to signal a possible intrusion.”
We follow his lead, taking turns standing before the sleek glass panel. A soft blue light sweeps across each of our faces as we state our names. Once Kai verifies our identities, there’s a low hiss, followed by a deep metallicclick—like a vault unlocking.
A massive door swings open with the weighty groan of reinforced steel.
“This is more secure than the Pentagon,” Gabriel mutters under his breath.
Judging by the serious looks exchanged around the room, he might be right.
As we step through the threshold, the air changes instantly.
The room swallows our footsteps. The walls are covered in a thick, matte-black material that drinks up sound, muting even our breathing. It feels like walking into a vacuum—soundproof, sterile, and somehow sacred. A place built not just for war, but for precision.
The space is massive, bigger than I expected, and every inch of it screams control and readiness. Along the walls, built-in cabinets line the perimeter, their solid, bulletproof glass gleaming under the soft, cold lights. Behind them, weapons are arranged with almost obsessive precision—each piece military-grade, perfectly cleaned, and waiting.
My eyes scan the arsenal. I immediately recognize the familiar silhouettes of M4A1 carbines, their attachments pre-installed for rapid deployment. Silenced Heckler & Koch MP5s, combat shotguns, several variants of semi-automatic pistols—they're all there. Tools of war, neatly cataloged and displayedlike collector’s items, if the collector specialized in delivering destruction.
To the left, nestled upright in one of the sideboards, a row of sniper rifles rests against padded supports. Each one has its own telescopic sight mounted and ready.
And there, commanding attention in its own compartment like a sleeping giant, sits a Barrett M82. The anti-material rifle looks more like a weapon of judgment than one of war—too heavy for most and too powerful to ignore.
At the back of the room, metal shelves carry crates of ammunition and an array of specialized gear: combat knives in leather sheaths, fragmentation and flashbang grenades, breaching charges, and rows of small black cases holding explosives, detonators, and digital timers.
Everything is cataloged, portable, and primed for use.
In the center of the room, a stark contrast to the weaponry, stand vertical racks holding black Nomex uniforms. They hang like uniforms for an elite, faceless army—no patches, no names, just function. Reinforced with aramid and carbon fiber, they promise protection without compromise.
Next to them, laid out with equal care, are ballistic vests, gloves, and tactical boots—all designed to absorb impact, resist heat, and blend into the shadows.
I take it all in—the organization, the silence, the power humming in the air.
This place is more than an armory. It’s a fortress of preparation.
And I realize—I’ve rarely seen gear this advanced outside a special operations base. This isn’t just backup. This is war.
“Wow,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “This is every military man’s dream.”
