Chapter 9 - THE MONTAUK APPROACH
The salt spray slammed against the windshield of our armored SUV as we tore down the deserted coastal highway toward Montauk Point. The storm had cleared, leaving behind a sky the color of bruised steel and a biting Atlantic wind that rattled the vehicle's reinforced frame.
In the passenger seat, I loaded spare magazines into my tactical vest, my hands moving with a mechanical precision I didn't know I possessed. The fear that had paralyzed me in the club parking lot had completely calcified into something cold, hard, and unforgiving.
Adrien glanced sideways at me, steering the vehicle with one hand while keeping his eyes on the winding dirt road ahead. "You've adapted faster than any operative I’ve trained in five years."
"Survival tends to accelerate the learning curve," I replied without looking up from the ammunition clip. "What's the layout of the lighthouse?"
"Built in the late eighteen-hundreds," Adrien explained, tapping a digital blueprint on the dashboard console. "Stone foundation, three internal levels, single spiral staircase leading to the beacon room. Blake’s security detail will have sniper positions on the upper deck and a heavy QRF unit stationed in the surrounding guesthouses."
"How many men?"
"At least twenty," Viktor chimed in from the back seat, racking the slide of his shotgun. "All ex-military contractors. They don't mess around."
"Good," Adrien said coldly. "Neither do we."
We parked the SUV half a mile away in a dense thicket of pine trees, continuing on foot through the freezing coastal brush. The beam of the abandoned lighthouse swept across the churning dark waves in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. As we approached the perimeter fence, Adrien signaled us to halt.
Through my binoculars, I could see two armed guards pacing near the rusted iron entrance gate, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders as they smoked and laughed against the wind.
"Viktor, take the western tower," Adrien whispered into his comms unit. "Neutralize the camera feed on the perimeter box. Lena, stay with me. We’re going through the lower drainage tunnel."
"The drainage tunnel?" I whispered back, eyeing the slick, slime-covered concrete opening near the crashing surf.
"Unless you want to waltz through the front door and announce our arrival," Adrien raised an eyebrow, a faint trace of amusement dancing in his dark eyes.
"Lead the way, boss," I muttered, sliding down the embankment.
The tunnel was narrow, freezing, and reeked of stagnant seawater and rusted iron. We moved in total silence, our boots splashing softly against the shallow runoff. After a hundred yards, a rusted iron ladder led vertically upward into the foundations of the lighthouse structure.
Adrien pushed open a heavy floor grate with a soft click, peering out into what appeared to be the building's old coal cellar.
May you like
"Clear," he whispered, hoisting himself up into the room before turning back to offer me a hand.
As my fingers gripped his warm, calloused palm, a sudden sound echoed from the floor directly above us—heavy boots marching down the spiral staircase, followed by Robert Blake’s unmistakable, smooth-as-silk voice.
