Chapter 6 - The Roar of the Beast
""Harris! Give me two minutes of suppressive fire on that catwalk!"" I roared, diving across the open concrete toward the driver's side of the Coronado.
Bullets immediately chewed into the concrete floor around my boots. Harris leaned around the pillar, firing disciplined double-taps at the catwalk railing. The sharp crack of gunfire reverberated deafeningly inside the enclosed space. Sparks flew off the metal railings above as Preston ducked behind reinforced bulletproof glass, screaming orders at his men.
I slid across the hood of the car, pulled the throttle linkage, and jammed the auxiliary bypass line directly into the reserve racing fuel reservoir built into the chassis. I grabbed my grandfather's wrench and torqued down the emergency stopcock, sealing the open fuel loop with raw, unrefined mechanical instinct.
""Vivian, get in!"" I shouted, kicking open the passenger door.
She sprinted through the gunfire, staying low, and threw herself into the custom leather bucket seat, clutching her laptop to her chest.
""Evan, the ignition system is mechanical,"" she gasped, her face pale. ""There’s no key—it’s an aircraft toggle board!""
I scrambled into the driver's seat. The cockpit was an intoxicating blend of vintage aviation dials, raw brushed aluminum, and a polished mahogany steering wheel. My hands instantly found the sequence.
Master power switch: UP.
Fuel auxiliary pumps: ENGAGED.
Twin magnetos: ON.
A high-pitched whine rose from the belly of the machine as the vintage fuel pumps pressurized fifty-year-old lines with fresh synthetic propellant.
""Harris! In the back!"" Vivian yelled.
Harris fired his last round, sprinted across the gap, and threw himself through the rear hatch opening just as a burst of automatic fire shattered the rear quarter-glass.
I stomped on the heavy floor-mounted starter pedal.
The starter motor groaned—a slow, agonizing turning of massive twelve-cylinder pistons that hadn't moved in a quarter of a century.
Chug... chug... chug...
""Come on, you beautiful bastard,"" I growled, pumping the mechanical throttle lever twice. ""Wake up!""
From above, two Vance tactical guards began descending the steel staircase to flank us.
I mashed the starter again.
BOOM.
A wall of pure, unadulterated thunder erupted beneath the aluminum hood. The quad-cam V12 roared to life with an earth-shattering howl that rattled the fillings in my teeth. Blue flames shot from the twin side-exit exhausts, illuminating the vault in brilliant neon flashes. The raw mechanical vibration shook the entire chassis, filling the cockpit with the glorious scent of unburnt racing fuel and burning dust.
Up on the observation deck, Preston’s smug face transformed into sheer, unbridled terror.
I slammed the heavy dogleg five-speed transmission into first gear. The straight-cut racing gears meshed with a brutal metallic clunk.
""Hold on!"" I screamed.
I dropped the clutch and hammered the gas.
The rear tires spun against the polished concrete, smoking furiously before hooking up with violent traction. The Coronado leaped forward like an unchained missile, hurtling across the vault directly toward the service gate beneath the observation catwalk.
""They're going to ram the gate!"" Preston shrieked over the radio. ""Shoot the tires! Shoot the tires!""
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Automatic fire rained down on the roof, but the Coronado's body was fabricated from aircraft-grade aluminum over a tubular steel spaceframe. We hit the drywall partition at sixty miles an hour.
The plaster exploded into white dust. Behind it, the rusted iron crash gate buckled under the sheer kinetic impact of two tons of charging steel. With a screech of tearing metal, we blew through the barrier and plunged headlong into the pitch-black void of the abandoned test tunnel.
