Chapter 87 - The Midnight Infiltration
The black stealth gunship did not attempt a landing. At two thousand feet above the Chester County tree line, Naomi cut the engines to whisper mode, letting the tiltrotor glide through the low storm clouds like an enormous predatory bird.
"Ethan, you take the primary service entrance through the kitchen," Naomi instructed as she strapped on a harness loaded with flashbangs, breaching charges, and magazines. "Vanessa stays locked in the rear bay. If she moves, the automated turret is slaved to track her."
Vanessa sat trembling in the corner, staring at Naomi with hollow, broken eyes. "Julian will kill you both. You have no idea what he brought with him from Philadelphia. The Iron Guard isn't just mercenaries—they’re Generation Ten."
Naomi paused, her fingers freezing on the strap of her combat vest. "Generation Ten?"
"The perfected batch," Vanessa whispered, a sick shudder running through her. "The ones who were born after you escaped. They don't feel pain. They don't have memories. They were engineered to destroy the ghosts of the past."
Naomi’s expression hardened into pure slate. "Then they'll die like any other machine."
She slapped the manual cargo release. The ramp opened into the freezing night sky, revealing the dark sprawl of Whitmore House illuminated by sporadic searchlights below.
"Jump on my count," Naomi told Ethan, handing him an altimeter parachute pack. "Deploy at four hundred feet. Land in the hedge maze, clear the perimeter guards, and link up with Henderson. I'm going straight through the conservatory roof."
"Naomi," Ethan caught her arm. His grip was firm, but his eyes were filled with an intensity he had never shown before. "Bring my mother back. And come back yourself."
"I have a job to finish, Ethan," she said simply.
She stepped backward off the edge of the ramp, dropping into the abyss like a stone.
Ethan followed three seconds later.
The wind roared in Naomi’s ears as the ground rushed up to meet her at terminal velocity. One thousand feet. Eight hundred. Six hundred. She pulled the ripcord; the micro-chute deployed with a muffled *crack*, arresting her descent just as the glass-paned dome of the Whitmore conservatory loomed beneath her boots.
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She unclipped her harness twenty feet above the glass, drawing both suppressed pistols as gravity pulled her downward.
She hit the glass dome feet-first, shattering the Victorian panes into a glittering rain of lethal shards, landing in a low roll among the exotic ferns and shattered marble statues of the Whitmore conservatory.
