Three hundred wealthy guests watched a maid stop Vanessa’s attack with one hand, never realizing the woman in the gray uniform had once been trained to dismantle dangerous threats. / Chapter 52 / 130

Chapter 52 - Into the Leviathan

The mechanical winches screamed as the pod was hauled upward out of the Atlantic swells and into the subterranean bay of the massive submarine. Through the thick glass of the porthole, Ethan watched the churn of foaming brine give way to the cavernous, vaulted ribs of an internal dry-dock hangar.

Water cascaded off the hull in violent torrents. Above them, catwalks crisscrossed the steel ceiling, manned by rows of operators in pressurized black armor, assault rifles held at low ready.

"They're going to breach the hatch," Ethan said, pulling Clara behind him. His eyes flicked to Naomi, who was already wrapping a strip of torn fabric from her tactical vest around her bleeding left hand, tightening it with her teeth.

"Let them open it," Naomi said coldly. Her voice was flat again, but the madness was gone. It had been replaced by the razor-sharp tactical awareness of Operative 09. "The pod's pressure seals are failing anyway. If we fight them in here, we suffocate."

"Naomi, your hand—" Clara began, tears tracking down her grime-streaked cheeks.

"It works well enough to pull a trigger," Naomi cut in, chambering a round into her sidearm. "Stay behind me. If they shoot, drop flat."

A heavy hydraulic hiss echoed from the exterior. The manual release wheel on the survival capsule's roof began to spin. Sparks showered from the edges as pressurized air equalized with a deafening crack.

The hatch was thrown open.

Two flash-bang canisters plummeted through the opening.

Naomi didn't hesitate. In a split-second blur of motion, her boots launched off the reinforced bench. She caught the first canister mid-air with her right hand and kicked the second one back up through the hatch with the steel toe of her combat boot before it could detonate.

An explosion rocked the exterior gangway, followed by groans of disoriented soldiers. Naomi vaulted through the opening like a coiled spring, her pistol barking three suppressed rounds before her feet even touched the metal deck outside.

Two armored guards collapsed backward into the drainage grates. Naomi rolled across the wet grating, grabbed an dropped tactical carbine, and spun around, sighting the upper catwalk.

"Cease fire!" a booming, amplified voice echoed through the hangar's speaker system, cutting through the din of alarms. "All units, stand down! Lower your weapons immediately!"

The remaining dozen commandos, their rifles trained on the hatch where Ethan and Clara were emerging, instantly froze.

From the central observation bridge, a tall man in a pristine charcoal-gray naval uniform descended an iron staircase. His hair was iron-gray, his posture rigid as a rail, and his chest bore no insignia save for a single silver triangle pinned to his lapel.