Chapter 93 The Archangel Directive

Chapter 93 The Archangel Directive
The absolute, terrifying truth about the legitimate superpowers of the earth is that they are nothing more than cartels with better public relations.

The ghost jet landed in the freezing blizzards of the Swiss Alps just 7 hours after the broken glass had fallen in the Dubai penthouse. The Vance heirs didn't go to their rooms to sleep. Their elegant attire replaced with pristine, black tactical gear, they walked straight into the depths of the war room.

The Kings were waiting.

Our fifteen-year-old son stepped up to the glowing glass tactical table, and reported the directive they gave it perfectly, "the Archangel Directive. His icy-blue eyes were completely swallowed by an absolute, terrifying intellect as his fingers blurred across the master keyboard. They knew that they couldn't legislate away the Vance Syndicate, so they combined their black-ops budgets and wiped us out entirely.

My Prince, where is their gold from? Smoothly, leaning over the table, I asked. My heart was beating coldly, without mercy, and was ready for the absolute slaughter.

Dark eyes blazing with unchecked, feline hellfire, our daughter replied, "They're moving billions through a decentralized deep-state slush fund. But my brother and I just weaponized the Vance AI to track the micro-transactions, the Archangel Directive isn't hiding in a government building in Washington or London.

The giant screens violently blazed, fixing on a single isolated point in the center of a freezing raging black ocean.

They were building a fortified, off-the-grid ocean fortress in the most deadly part of the North Sea," our son said coldly. It is a huge multi-level military black site that is disguised as a derelict deep water oil rig, and it is crawling with elite PMC operatives.

The table was the seat of Julian Vance's massive, heavily muscled frame, with his perfect jaw locking into punishing steel. The dictator of the underworld studied the computer-generated image of the ocean fortress.

“They wish to hide in the deep sea from the dark?” There was a huge growl, a rumble that shook the earth, a sound of pure alpha dominance, from Julian. He looked at me, his black eyes all ablaze with a dirty, protective lust. "Let's completely drown them."

I didn't hesitate. "Set up the stealth fleet, we're going to launch in ten minutes.

The twins were preparing to start the armory when Julian reached out and his big, hot hand clenched my waist. He grabbed me and held me tight, and didn't pay any attention to the countdown to war. He didn't speak. He pressed his lips to mine in a fiery, dominating, and mesmerizing kiss. It was a promise of violence, a dark electric promise, an absolute one that we would only unleash when our enemies of bloodline were wiped away.

Julian vowed darkly against my lips, "I am going to paint the North Sea red for you, Kaelen.

I whispered perfectly, "Show them exactly why you are the King, Julian.

Absolute limits between the legitimate world and the underworld were utterly and violently erased two hours later.

Three huge, stealthy Vance choppers cut through the hurricane-strength winds of the North Sea. The Archangel black site stood above us, protruding from the freezing, violently churning black waves like a rusted, heavily armored leviathan.

The heavy side doors opened of the lead chopper. My dark tactical gear was drenched in the freezing ocean spray, but my skater's balance was still spot on in the midst of the rough waters.

I have eliminated their localized sonar and radar, our son's voice crackled into the encrypted earpiece, completely calm in the midst of the storm. You are undetected. Little Queen is set up for an air watch.

We were on the edge of the drop with Julian. No fast roping was used.

We were totally overwhelmed by the storm.

We jumped off the chopper, fell as deadly, crushing shadows in the freezing rain. We made a great landing with a big thud on the wet, slick, steel of the main helipad.

Over the wind and surf, a heavily armored PMC operative raised an advanced assault rifle and shouted, "Intruders on the deck!

He didn't even get to pull the trigger.

CRACK!

Our daughter's sniper rifle was a heavy, custom-built weapon, and from the hovering chopper above, she fired unrelenting hellfire. The operative's high-tech visor completely shattered, his body violently thrown over the guardrail and disappearing into the freezing black waves below.

I drew my twin custom combat blades and commanded, "Execute the breach.I brought out my twin custom combat blades and ordered, "Execute the breach.

Julian completely unchained the monster. He didn't use a cover. He was a god of pure and terrible physical destruction, charging straight across the slippery steel deck. Three PMC operatives ran at him, Julian violently seizing the barrel of the first rifle and crushing the reinforced metal with his bare hand, before driving his heavy tactical boot into the man's chest, shattering his ribcage.

I walked right next to my King and equipped the rain-wet metal grate of the rig with weapons.

I fell to the ground exactly as I wanted to, and skated across the cold metal at a speed that was blinding, supersonic, like the speed of ice. I used the explosive rotational momentum of my Olympic background to lower myself under a lethal fire of suppressed gunshots, rotate my body 360 degrees on my heel and then drive my twin blades into two gunmen who were advancing, and whose joints had not been protected.
We made a spectacular, perfect Pairs synchronization through the upper floors of the Archangel fortress. The "legitimate" global task force knew nothing of how to deal with apex predators who took kinetic velocity as an art form.

Papa, the command center is right underneath you, our son's icy blue intellect reported, and easily led us through the blood-soaked maze of steel corridors. The doors at the center are made of reinforced titanium, and The Archangel Commander is trapped within.

Titanium wasn't going to stop the Vance bloodline, Julian growled darkly.

We arrived at the thick blast doors. Julian didn't wait for our son to hack the keypad. The Fallen King backed away, released his immense alpha energy, and slammed the doors in the middle. The hinges were buckled, the titanium groaning and tearing under the impossible brute force.

I made it through the opening before the doors even hit the ground, my blood stained twin blades lifted and poised to cut the Commander's throat.

As I entered the high-tech, multi-million dollar command center, though, my mended heart took a hard and dangerous leap.

The Archangel Commander wasn't cowering behind his desk. He wasn't trying to get his hands on a gun. He stood still, in a pristine military uniform, staring at the wall-mounted large bank of monitors.

And he was smiling.

The Commander's voice was low and absolute, as if he were a fanatic.The Commander's voice was low and chilling, absolute as a fanatic.

I checked the big screens. They weren't displaying the tactical defense grid of the ocean fortress. They were showing us a satellite feed live stream of the one place on earth we hadn't protected.

The chateau in the Swiss Alps, named after the family of the painter.

Dozen upon dozen of heavily armed, stealthy Archangel strike teams were marching right around the perimeter of our home, and right in front of our 15-year-old son, sitting totally alone in the war room below, was the subterranean war room.

"Did you really think the deep-state would hide on an oil rig?" the Commander laughed, a deeply arrogant, hollow sound. This whole fortress was just a trap. We were trying to lure the Kings out. While you were all cooling off in the middle of the North Sea... we were going to completely slaughter your Prince.

My eyes opened wide in a fear I could not even imagine, as a large, heavily armed breach charge exploded on the live feed, smashing through the main gates of our mountain home.