An iron-gated corridor under infrared sights, Lynn reveals the emergency dispatch order
The red spot of the infrared sight fell on the clasp on the front of the lead box.
The light spot trembled slightly, reflecting the hurried breathing in the corridor outside the explosion-proof door.
The air was filled with the acrid smell of stale diesel fuel that had burned incompletely.
The cement walls on the third basement level were seeping with mortar, which dripped along the cable troughs.
Gwen Stacy held the pulse gun low to her waist, her index finger already pressed against the trigger guard.
The heavily armored riot shield at the end of the passage moved forward three steps.
The heavy steel shield struck the concrete ground with a dull thud.
Twelve carbines with their dark flash suppressors peeked out from between the shields.
"Put down the box and back behind the yellow line!"
The military police officer leading the team took half a step forward, and a piercing electrical static came from his throat microphone.
He wore the double-headed eagle insignia of the Seventh Defense Zone on his right armband.
Two communications soldiers carrying portable signal jammers are setting up antennas on both sides of the corridor.
The green frequency hopping signal light turned into a locked red light.
Lynn carried the heavy radiation shielding box without backing down.
His boots made a short, crisp sound as they stepped on the scrap metal.
Gwen Stacy shifted half an inch to the side, his peripheral vision sweeping over the ventilation duct interface above the passageway.
"Captain, how many minutes ago was your riot control order issued?"
Lynn's voice was calm and steady.
His left hand reached inside his trench coat lining, moving slowly, his fingers not touching the weapon.
The two shield bearers opposite instinctively lowered their center of gravity, revealing bloodshot eyes through the observation windows on their shields.
"Enough with the nonsense! The repair shop is suspected of smuggling controlled weapons. The military police have the authority to handle this on-site!"
The captain drew his large-caliber tactical pistol with one hand, and the bolt opened.
"This is the line of actual control for the T-03 Defense Zone. The administrative sign of the Management Committee is not valid in wartime!"
Lynn pulled her fingers out from under her trench coat.
What he was holding between his fingers was not an identity plaque, but a thick piece of parchment with gold foil embossed on the edges and folded flat.
The paper bears a dark red embossed steel stamp of the Management Committee Joint Conference in the center.
Below the stamp was a very deep black ink mark.
"Emergency Dispatch Order for War Readiness Assets, No. SEC-009"
Lynn unfolded the official document, holding it with one hand across his chest.
The infrared laser immediately shifted from the lead box and swept across the special anti-counterfeiting code below the official document.
The terminal screen on the communications soldier's wrist suddenly flickered.
That was a forced hardware handshake triggered by a directive from the Highest Access Privileges of the Joint Conference.
"Do you recognize this stamp, Captain?"
Lynn looked at the rank insignia on the other person's collar.
"The Joint Conference issued a special-level dispatch order for the entire defense zone three days ago, which is directly under the jurisdiction of the Director's Office."
"All classified consumables transferred from the Seventh Repair Workshop have been designated as Level 3 combat readiness evidence."
Gwen Stacy holstered her pistol, crossed her arms over her chest, and lightly tapped the ground with the tips of her boots.
"According to Article 7, Paragraph 2 of the Supplementary Regulations on Defense Zone Military Control, the military police company's unauthorized sealing of Level 3 classified evidence without the dual approval of the inspector and the Joint Conference is tantamount to an armed Impact on a classified vault."
Gwen Stacy's voice echoed in front of the iron fence, devoid of any emotional fluctuation.
The knuckles of the young soldiers opposite them, gripping their guns, began to turn white.
The captain's Adam's apple bobbed as he stared intently at the parchment in Lynn's hand.
He was well aware of the significance of that Joint Conference's seal.
Within the Management Committee's structure, Monk, though a regional commander, was still subject to the administrative regulations of the Joint Conference.
"Commander Monk signed a Level One riot ultimatum..."
The captain lowered his grip on his gun by five degrees, and his tone was noticeably less forceful than before.
"A riot ultimatum is a tactical-level order."
Lynn took a step forward.
The sole of the boot crushed an empty bullet casing.
"Dispatch orders are a strategic-level authority."
"Do you need me to teach you the wartime order of command here, Captain?"
Lynn's gaze pierced through the gaps in the shield and landed on the captain's face, which was covered with the cracks of sand and dust.
"Monk's unauthorized deployment of the military police company to a repair shop outside the jurisdiction of the defense zone—this overstepping of authority will be settled by Thomas and the Inspection Office first thing tomorrow morning."
"Shoot, or move aside."
The two shield bearers instinctively turned their heads to look at their superior behind them.
The ventilation fans in the corridor emitted a low, whimpering sound.
The only sound in the air was the heavy vibration of the diesel generator.
A fine layer of sweat appeared on the captain's forehead, dripping down his chin onto the nylon webbing of his bulletproof vest.
He knew perfectly well that once the trigger was pulled, the nature of the operation would change from an arms search to a rebellion shootout.
The dispatch order in Lynn's hand was legal and bore the highest official seal.
"Headquarters requests verification of the evidence inside the box."
The captain gritted his teeth, trying to hold onto his last line of defense.
"A batch of special card cores has been stolen from the repair shop. We must confirm that the contents of the box are unrelated to the stolen items."
Gwen Stacy let out a very soft, cold laugh.
"Check the physical evidence?"
Gwen Stacy pulled a red and blue pencil from her coat pocket and twirled it deftly between her fingers.
"The box contains a classified recording device sealed in the Director's Office; its classification level belongs to the Minister of the Department of Technology."
"Captain, are those two bronze stars on your shoulders enough for you to see Minister Wanda's handwritten test results?"
Upon hearing Wanda's name, several soldiers lowered their guns to the ground.
Beneath the Department of Technology, where dark red magic burned year-round, no low-ranking agent dared to provoke the Witch.
The captain's cheek muscles twitched violently twice.
He slowly withdrew his grip on the gun and tucked it back into the hard holster on his outer thigh.
"First squad, close in the barricades."
The captain forced out an order through clenched teeth.
The heavy riot shields slid to the sides, creating a narrow passage in the corridor just wide enough for two people to pass through.
Lynn, carrying the lead box, strode past the shields.
The hem of the trench coat brushed against the edge of the cold steel shield.
Gwen Stacy followed a step behind him, her steps light, her gaze fixed on the fingers of the soldiers on either side.
The two passed each other.
There wasn't a single unnecessary negotiation.
Just as Lynn was about to cross the line blocked by the last two signalmen of the military police company, the emergency lights above the corridor flickered slightly.
The captain leading the team had his back to Lynn, his left hand hanging down below his tactical vest behind his back.
His little finger and index finger bent inwards very discreetly, and then he tapped the tactical magazine pouch three times in a rhythm of three long taps and two short taps.
That's not standard sign language used by the military police.
That was a secret code used by the special operations battalion within the Defense Zone Dispatch Center to dispatch assassins.
The corridor was pitch black at its deepest point, with only the louvers of the backup ventilation ducts trembling slightly in the airflow.
Lynn didn't turn around, but simply switched the lead box to his right hand and casually slipped his left hand into the pocket of his coat.
The cold, crystalline card's outer shell pressed against my palm, its temperature quietly rising.