Not long after, a phone call came in on Reacher's burner. The man on the other end not only confidently assured they'd arrive before 3:00 a.m., but also shared an unexpected intel drop.
The heavily guarded facility in front of them wasn't just some R&D site—it was New Era Tech's primary data center, vastly larger than the server room hidden beneath company HQ.
Jack had a eureka moment. No wonder the hard drives they'd recovered only contained business documents and no technical data. All the research files were stored here.
Lavoie's security detail promised they'd take out the power transformer, plunging the entire facility into darkness. As for how they'd do that, they didn't say—just that they'd know when it happened.
After coordinating timing, the call ended, and everyone went back to puzzling over the satellite map.
Data centers like this were backed up by numerous UPS units and emergency generators. Cutting the power might knock out the floodlights, but within minutes, the generators would restore internal emergency lighting.
So using night-vision gear to dominate the dark wasn't in the cards. Luckily, they had plenty of flashbangs, which could help clear rooms while keeping casualties low.
But if there were hostages inside, the longer the operation dragged on, the greater the risk to them. It was a catch-22: move too fast, and the team might suffer casualties. Move too slow, and Reacher might not survive.
As Jack tucked a GPS tracker and lockpick wire into a slit he cut into Reacher's boot with O'Donnell's spring-loaded knife, he kept thinking.
"Clay and I can push fast and hard—but the distance between the main gate and the interior building is wide open. We'll be sitting ducks crossing that stretch."
Danny studied the satellite image again, then raised his binoculars toward the building before turning his gaze toward the south gate. "So all we need is to get you guys across that stretch and into the main facility ASAP, right?" —— Just after 2:00 a.m., an AS332 "Super Puma" helicopter slowly touched down on the facility's helipad. As the rotors wound down, two armed guards approached the pilot, chatting like they knew him. They then escorted him inside for rest—clearly, this chopper was to take Langston to the missile deal.
Meanwhile, on the outer perimeter, Negley made one final effort to talk Reacher out of his suicide mission.
"You really plan to go in there alone? Think about what happened to Franz, Sanchez, and Orozco—cuffed, tortured, beaten. Even if Langston doesn't kill you right away, he'll break you apart."
"I've got my best soldiers covering me, don't I?" Reacher said, locking eyes with the remaining special investigators—then looking to Jack.
"Watch their backs for me."
"Try watching your own first," Jack said, slapping his shoulder as he activated a silent combat stimulant. A little medical boost couldn't hurt.
With over half an hour until go-time, Reacher's physique would hopefully be enough to endure what was coming. —— Reacher's decision to walk in solo wasn't just bravado—it was tactical. As he appeared at the gate, the electrified steel door slowly opened. Five or six gunmen quickly surrounded him, tense and alert.
Instantly, a third of the patrol guards pulled off the perimeter, especially near the gate, giving the team an opening. Figures darted through the dark, disappearing into roadside brush.
"I see Langston," Negley hissed over comms, seething.
"Don't do anything stupid, Negley. There are at least six guns on Reacher right now," Jack warned. He could see it too.
As the roll-up door lifted, a familiar older face appeared in Jack's scope. The old man looked oddly familiar... and then it clicked.
That face—the dead-eyed stare, the emotionless look—T-1000. The liquid metal monster from Terminator 2, now wrinkled and gray, but still unsettling enough to make Jack's skin crawl.
They watched as Reacher was marched inside the facility. Though they couldn't see or hear what was happening beyond those walls, every second that ticked by felt like a lifetime.
Unseen horrors are often the worst. Even Jack, usually confident in the "plot armor" of main characters, found himself getting antsy.
"Laser designator locked," Jubal reported over comms. Jack exhaled in relief and checked his watch—2:55 a.m. on the dot.
One minute passed. Then another.
At 2:57, a faint engine rumble came from the sky. Jack raised his binoculars toward the clouded night sky, faintly starlit.
A red navigation light blinked once, then vanished into the clouds—twin prop engines, anti-collision beacon mounted on the tail.
Jack wasn't watching the plane, though. He was watching the three parachutes slowly opening in its wake.
"Negley, go!" Jack barked.
With that, the restless sniper fired. Several crisp pops—like champagne bottles opening—rang out.
"North perimeter clear. Landing zone open," Negley reported coolly.
"That's our cue. Alice, give us some music!" Danny shouted, slamming the gas pedal down. —— How do you smash through a multi-ton steel gate made of bars as thick as a man's forearm?
Danny had a plan: use a massive, high-powered American long-nose semi truck and ram it.
The task force's command truck, a Freightliner MT-55 converted by Mateman, technically could do it. But the onboard equipment cost more than the truck itself. So instead, it stayed back, blasting music at full volume, serving as a very loud distraction.
For the job, Danny brought in a classic Peterbilt 389 long-nose tractor trailer—complete with a massive container on the back. Recognizable to any moviegoer, it was the same model used for Optimus Prime in Transformers.
When a roaring, high-beam-blinding "Optimus Prime" comes barreling toward you, the only sane response is run.
The four guards at the gate scattered in panic. Moments later, Optimus slammed into the gate with a thunderous crash.
The truck's cab crumpled, the steel gate flew high into the air before slamming down and sparking across the pavement.
Though the gate was ruined, it had done its job—stopping the truck. White smoke hissed from the engine as it died, the momentum carrying the truck a few dozen more meters before it rolled to a helpless stop.
"F**k!"
"What the hell?!"
"Die, asshole!"
One of the guards opened fire, dumping a mag into the truck cab. Sparks danced off the steel, but a more senior guard quickly stopped him.
"Stop it, idiot!" he barked. "That trailer could have something dangerous inside!"
He pointed to another guard. "Mark, go check out that other vehicle—what the hell's blasting music down the road?"
He pointed toward the command truck, parked loudly in the distance, where "Fortunate Son" blared from the speakers.
🎵 Some folks are born to wave the flag...
Ooh, they're red, white, and blue...
And when the band plays "Hail to the Chief"...
They point the cannon at you, Lord...
It ain't me, it ain't me...
I ain't no senator's son... 🎵
"Damn it, Alice, why'd you pick this song? It's cursed!" Danny muttered, crouched behind the truck's passenger seat, watching his watch with one hand poised over a switch.
Boom! A controlled explosion cracked, and the entire facility went dark. Emergency lights flickered on moments later.
The interior regained partial power, but the outer perimeter was plunged into shadow—the generators couldn't supply the whole compound.
"Move!" Jack shouted over comms. Danny yanked the release.
Hissss! The trailer door slid open with a pneumatic hiss.
Before the guards could react, a black muscle car shot from the trailer like a cannonball—its grille glowing with a hellish red light.
A heavily modified Pontiac Firebird landed with a bounce. Its thousand-horsepower V8 roared like a dragon.
Jack drifted it into a screeching U-turn, left arm on the wheel, right hand resting a Noveske N4 rifle on the window frame—firing on full auto.
In the passenger seat, Clay mirrored him, firing his own N4 with a grin wider than his muzzle flash.
This was it—his Hollywood moment. Suddenly, quitting Bravo Team didn't seem like such a bad decision.
The modified suppressors on their rifles meant the gunfire was almost drowned out by the Firebird's snarl and tire squeals.
As red tracers zipped through the dark, the guards around the destroyed truck dropped one by one.
And from far off, the deep thud of the Barrett M82A1 roared—calm, steady, deadly. Reaper's drumbeat.
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