Dakota closed his eyes, and for a moment, it was last night on the patio. The bridge lights. Her story about Ian, the man she’d loved and lost. Her smile when she’d walked away—the smile that had been a spear to his heart.
Promise you won’t die tomorrow.
“For not telling you I’m in love with you.”
Silence. Static. Nothing.
He didn’t wait for a response. Couldn’t.
Because, well, focus.
One word from her and he might find himself in the water, swimming hard. So Dakota turned away from the water, away from her, and ran for the ventilation access.
The shaft was cramped. Barely room to move.
He wedged himself through the access panel, flashlight clamped between his teeth, tablet abandoned somewhere behind him. The ductwork pressed in from all sides—corrugated metal, decades of accumulated dust, the hum of air handlers that would carry death to every corner of the building if he failed.
And there it was.
Wedged against a junction in the ductwork, its timer display glowing red in the darkness. Different from the others—smaller, more sophisticated. No radio receiver. No remote trigger.
Just a timer, counting down.
03:47
03:46
03:45
Dakota’s EOD training kicked in, years of muscle memory taking over. He assessed the device—power source, trigger mechanism, fail-safes. The obsidite canister was smaller than the others but just as deadly. The toxin reservoir was pressurized. The dispersal mechanism was integrated into the ductwork itself.
This wasn’t a primary weapon. This was the backup. Designed to activate if everything else failed. Designed to be impossible to stop.
“Ham.” He keyed his mic. “I’ve found the sixth device. Ventilation shaft, upper level. It’s timer-based, no radio receiver. Nimue’s protocol won’t work.”
Static.
“Ham, do you copy?”
Nothing. The concrete and steel had swallowed the signal completely.
He was alone.
02:58
02:57
02:56
Dakota pulled his multitool from his belt and started mapping the system. Power lines here. Trigger mechanism there. The wiring pattern was unfamiliar—not standard military, not standard demolition. Something custom. Something designed to fool anyone who tried to disarm it.
Two wires led from the timer to the detonator. Red and blue, the flag colors.
Standard protocol said cut the red wire. Every manual, every instructor, every training scenario he’d ever run—cut the red wire to disconnect the timer from the trigger.
But the configuration was wrong.
01:34
