Chapter 20 - The Island of Forgotten Souls
The North Atlantic was a void of violent black water and howling squalls when the Gulfstream reached its drop zone six hours later.
At ten thousand feet, the freezing air tore at our flight suits as the cargo ramp lowered into the dark abyss. Below us, masked by the rolling thunderheads and driving rain, lay the jagged volcanic spine of the forbidden islet.
"Jump on my mark!" Vance shouted over the wind. "Pull your rip-cords at two thousand feet! Aim for the rocky shelf north of the lighthouse beacon!"
Brooke and Hannah were staying behind aboard the aircraft with the transport crew; Brooke’s role would begin the moment we secured Sarah, coordinating with honest contacts in the Department of Justice to ensure our legal sanctuary the second we touched mainland soil.
"Bring her home, Rebecca," Brooke said, squeezing my arm tightly before stepping back into the pressurized cabin.
Hannah hugged me fiercely. "Don't let them take you from me again."
"I won't," I promised.
Stepping to the edge of the ramp, I looked down into the black abyss and leaped.
The rush of freezing air knocked the breath from my lungs. The descent was a blur of whipping rain, flashing lightning, and the deafening roar of the Atlantic gale. Far below, the white froth of thirty-foot waves smashing against volcanic basalt emerged from the gloom.
At two thousand feet, I pulled the cord. The canopy snapped open with a violent jolt, slowing my descent just in time to guide my approach toward the narrow, pebble-strewn beach beneath the towering sea cliffs.
I hit the ground hard, rolling across the wet gravel, cutting my harness away with a tactical knife before the wind could drag me into the surf. Seconds later, Vance landed twenty yards away, gathering his chute with practiced efficiency.
Above us, carved directly into the sheer face of the basalt cliff, loomed the brutalist concrete facade of Site Obsidian. Heavy iron floodlights swept the crashing waves, but the thick sea mist blinded the automated cameras.
"The drainage intake is fifty yards north," Vance whispered, checking his night-vision optics. "The high tide floods the lower sluice gates, but the intake grates are old iron. Daniel’s maintenance bypass key should disable the interior pressure sensors."
We moved swiftly along the jagged shoreline, scrambling over slick boulders until we reached the massive rusted iron pipe protruding from the cliff. A heavy electronic keypad sat mounted beside the reinforced steel grate, coated in ocean salt and rust.
My hands were numb with cold, but my focus was laser-sharp. Inserting Daniel’s stolen transponder key into the slot, I entered the eight-digit emergency override sequence he had surrendered in the interrogation room.
For three terrifying seconds, the red LED flickered.
Then, with a heavy pneumatic click, the light turned green. The heavy iron grate swung outward, revealing a narrow, descending concrete corridor lit by the faint, flickering amber glow of emergency security lamps.
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We stepped into the belly of the beast.
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