Chapter 8: The Grandmother's Protocol
Chapter 8: The Grandmother's Protocol
Eleanor had thirty years of intense, daily experience managing the sheer chaos of a massive, unruly family. Coordinating conflicting schedules, anticipating disasters before they happened, and moving resources with absolute precision was second nature to her. Setting up a tactical kill zone was simply an exercise in extreme logistics.
She worked with mechanical efficiency. First, she strung high-tension, transparent fishing line across the main loading bay doors at ankle height, attaching the triggers to rusted, industrial engine pulleys suspended high up in the steel rafters. Next, she approached the shipyard's massive, antiquated electrical fuse box. Using a Leatherman tool from her glovebox, she painstakingly bypassed the modern safety switches, routing raw, ungrounded 220-volt current directly to the metallic loading ramps at the entrance.
Finally, she placed standard highway road flares strategically near small, seemingly accidental pools of highly flammable marine diesel fuel she had poured. She was exhausted; her aging bones deeply ached with the damp, biting chill of the coastal storm. But a fierce, blinding, maternal rage burned inside her chest, keeping her moving.
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They had taken her for granted. They had assumed she was a weak, easily manipulated old woman. They had threatened her babies.
She checked the suppressed pistol she had taken from the gas station, chambering a round and sliding the single spare magazine into the front pocket of her soaked windbreaker. Breathing evenly, she climbed the rusted metal stairs to the second-story observation deck and stepped deep into the shadows to wait for her guests.
