The distraction worked, but only for a heartbeat.
In the high-stakes theater of the shadows, a heartbeat is usually enough. As Vogel's eyes tracked the soaring black shape toward the surf, Elias dropped his center of gravity and fired. The two tactical men were already bringing their submachine guns to bear, but Elias was faster.
The first man took a round to the center of the chest and tumbled backward. The second managed to squeeze off a burst that chewed into the dirt at Elias's feet before a 9mm round caught him under the chin.
Vogel didn't panic. He was an old hand, a man who had survived the purges of the late eighties by being colder than the weather in Berlin. Instead of diving for the drive, he realized the deception. He didn't look at the sea; he looked at the detonator in his hand.
"A decoy, Elias?" Vogel shouted, his thumb hovering over the red button. "A hardware store special? Very clever. But the girl still dies."
"The drive you're looking for is in the bunker," Elias said, his voice a low growl as he kept his Sig leveled at Vogel's head.
"The one I threw was a packet of washers wrapped in electrical tape. But here's the thing about C4, Vogel. It's stable. It needs a high-velocity shock or a specific electrical charge. And you're standing on a wet rock in the middle of a gale."
"I don't need a physics lesson from a man who sells nails," Vogel sneered.
"You should have looked at the jammer," Elias countered.
Vogel glanced down at the device in his left hand. The small green LED was flickering.
"Salt air," Elias said, taking a step forward.
"It's hell on electronics. My father knew that. That's why everything in that bunker is vacuum-sealed. Your little signal-blocker is shorting out. If you press that button, the only thing that's going to happen is a spark in your hand."
It was a bluff. A desperate, paper-thin lie. C4 detonators were shielded, and Vogel likely knew it. But in the dark, with the wind howling and the bodies of his team cooling on the granite, doubt was a powerful toxin. Vogel hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the bunker door to creak open.
Sarah didn't come out with her hands up. She came out with a heavy industrial flare gun she'd found in the emergency locker.
Fwoosh.
A brilliant, magnesium-white streak of light tore through the dusk. It didn't hit Vogel—it wasn't meant to. It struck the ground between them, erupting into a blinding fountain of sparks that illuminated the island like a second sun.
Vogel hissed, shielding his eyes. Elias lunged.
He didn't fire his gun; he couldn't risk a stray round hitting the bunker's fuel cells. He slammed into Vogel, the two of them tumbling over the edge of the observation post's roof and onto the jagged slope of the island. They rolled through the gorse and gravel, a chaotic blur of limbs and muffled grunts.
Vogel was stronger than he looked. He drove a knee into Elias's ribs, a blow that would have incapacitated a lesser man. Elias felt the air leave his lungs, a sharp, familiar pain blooming in his side. He didn't let go. He grabbed Vogel's wrist, twisting it until the detonator clattered away into a crevice.
They scrambled to their feet, ten feet apart on the narrow ledge. Below them, the Atlantic was a churning cauldron of white water.
"You think you've won?" Vogel gasped, spitting blood onto the stone.
"The Index is a death sentence, Elias. If that data goes live, the 'stability' I promised becomes a civil war. Every government in the West will be paralyzed. You're not saving the world; you're burning the library down."
"Maybe the library needs a fresh start," Elias said.
Vogel reached into his coat, pulling a slim, ceramic blade.
"Your father was a Librarian because he knew how to keep a secret. You? You're just a vandal."
Vogel lunged. He was fast, the blade a silver blur in the fading light. Elias parried the first strike, the ceramic edge slicing through his jacket sleeve and grazing his forearm. He stepped back, his heel catching on the lip of the cliff.
He didn't have room to maneuver. He had to end it.
As Vogel stepped in for a killing thrust, Elias didn't retreat. He stepped into the strike, catching Vogel's bicep and using his own momentum to pivot. It was a move he'd learned in a rainy alleyway in Kiev—a brutal, efficient redirection of force.
He gripped Vogel's throat with one hand and his belt with the other. With a primal roar, Elias hoisted the man up and drove him backward.
Vogel's eyes went wide. He tried to grab Elias's jacket, his fingers clawing at the canvas, but the salt spray made everything slick. He found no purchase.
There was no scream. Just the sound of a heavy weight hitting the water far below, followed by the relentless roar of the surf.
Elias stood at the edge, his chest heaving. He looked down, but there was nothing to see but the dark, hungry mouth of the ocean. Vogel was gone. The detonator was lost.
"Elias!"
He turned. Sarah was standing at the top of the ridge, the flare gun still smoking in her hand. She looked exhausted, her face streaked with soot and salt.
"Is it done?" she asked.
Elias looked at the bunker. The amber light was still glowing.
"Did the upload finish?"
"No," she said, her voice trembling.
"The jammer was working. It reached 98% and then the signal died. I tried to restart it, but the satellite link is fried."
Elias walked back up the slope, his legs feeling like lead. He entered the bunker and looked at the screen. CONNECTION LOST.
He looked at the USB drive still plugged into the port. All that blood, all that history, and it was still tethered to a piece of plastic and a dying battery.
"We can't stay here," Elias said, pulling the drive and tucking it into his inner pocket.
"They'll have more teams. A man like Vogel doesn't go anywhere without a safety net."
"Where do we go? The causeway is open, but they'll be watching the roads."
Elias looked at the city of Saint-Malo. The lights were coming on along the ramparts, a warm, golden glow that felt a million miles away. He thought about his shop—the drawers of nails, the smell of sawdust, the quiet life he had tried to build. It was gone now. The iron shutter would never screech open for him again.
"We go to the one place they won't expect us," Elias said.
"Where?"
"The hardware store."
Sarah stared at him. "Are you insane? That's the first place they'll look."
"Exactly," Elias said, a cold, calculated light returning to his eyes.
"And in a hardware store, I don't need a Sig Sauer to fight. I have five thousand ways to kill a man, and most of them come in a box of twelve."
He looked at the maritime chart on the desk one last time. He grabbed a permanent marker and circled a small, anonymous warehouse near the train station—the location of Locker 402.
"My father didn't just leave a list of names," Elias muttered. "He left a contingency. The 'Librarian' always has a back-up plan. We just need to find the rest of the key."
He led her out of the bunker and toward the causeway. The moon was rising, casting a silver path across the wet sand. They walked in silence, two ghosts returning to a city that didn't know the war had already begun.