Chapter 113 - The Iron Tollgate
By 3:00 AM, the interstate had become a graveyard of dead electronics. Vehicles built after the mid-2000s with integrated computer chips sat frozen in the center lanes, their alternators fried by the electromagnetic surge that had cascaded down from New York. Naomi guided the older, analog-shielded sedan along the shoulder, dodging abandoned delivery trucks and panicked commuters who were wandering the pavement in the dark.
"Why Manhattan?" Vanessa asked, staring out the window at the distant, pitch-black skyline of Jersey City. Usually a beacon of neon and office towers, the entire horizon looked like a jagged mountain range cut out of black paper. "My father never had operations in the city. His offices were in Zurich and Philadelphia."
"Your father didn't," Naomi corrected, swerving around a jackknifed tractor-trailer. "The Directorate did. New York isn't an administrative hub for them; it's the crucible. In 1998, before Generation Nine was officially commissioned, the primary biological repository was constructed beneath the bedrock of Lower Manhattan, directly under the Federal Reserve vault network. If the British voice on that radio is who I think it is, he isn't trying to hide from us. He’s liquidating the archives."
"Who is he?"
Naomi’s jaw tightened. "Archibald Vance. The Director of Human Optimization. The man who signed the execution orders for Generations One through Eight when they showed signs of psychological fracture."
Before Vanessa could process the horror of the statement, Naomi slammed on the brakes.
Fifty yards ahead, blocking all six lanes of the northern turnpike approach toward the Lincoln Tunnel, stood an improvised checkpoint. But these were not state troopers or National Guard. Heavy black armored personnel carriers with run-flat tires were parked in a chevron formation. Men in slate-gray tactical gear—bearing no insignias, flags, or identifying patches—stood behind ballistic shields, their weapons raised.
"Directorate sweepers," Naomi muttered, throwing the car into reverse.
Too late. A high-intensity spotlight flared from the roof of the center APC, blinding the windshield with searing white light. A digitized voice boomed through external bullhorns:
*"Vehicle recognized. Designation: Alpha Retainer. Cut the ignition and step out with your hands interlocked behind your head. Failure to comply in three seconds will result in immediate anti-materiel suppression."*
"Get down on the floorboards," Naomi commanded, her voice dropping into the terrifyingly calm cadence Vanessa had heard back in the ballroom.
"Naomi—there are at least twenty of them!"
May you like
"Stay down, Vanessa." Naomi reached beneath her seat and pulled a heavy, matte-black case from the concealed bulkhead. Inside lay an experimental short-barreled carbine, modified with ceramic penetrator rounds, and three thermite canisters. "And close your eyes."
***
