Chapter 7 - DANCE OF THE DAMNED
The explosion at the north gate threw the ironworks into frantic disarray. Sirens wailed, red emergency lights bathed the soot-stained corridors in bloody hues, and heavy boots echoed across the metal catwalks.
I erupted from the drainage grate inside the maintenance sub-level, soaking wet, silent, and lethal.
Two guards running toward the staging area never saw me emerge from the steam. I crossed the distance in three silent strides, driving the combat knife beneath the first man's jaw while sweeping the second man's legs out from under him. Before he hit the concrete floor, I snatched his sidearm and put a single round through his chest plate.
I didn't stop to breathe. I moved like a phantom through the lower levels, tracking the heavy concentration of encrypted comm chatter toward the central smelting floor.
When I reached the observation balcony overlooking the main arena, the sight below stopped my heart.
The vast room was dominated by an enormous, cold industrial furnace. Suspended above the concrete basin by heavy chains was Dante.
His shirt was shredded, stained with dark crimson streaks. His face was bruised and bloody, but his head was held high, his jaw set in that same unyielding, arrogant defiance I had fallen in love with years ago. Around his torso was strapped the heavy, blinking C-4 harness—the digital detonator counting down:
00:14:22.
Standing ten paces in front of him, flanked by six heavily armed bodyguards, was Director Vance.
Vance was an older man with stark white hair and the predatory posture of a seasoned wolf. He held a tactical tablet, tapping the screen with a stylus while an electronic technician knelt beside a signal-jamming tower plugged directly into the wall.
"You're running out of time, Dante," Vance's voice echoed through the cavernous chamber, amplified by the industrial acoustics. "The jammer will isolate your vest's telemetry within twelve minutes. When that frequency flatlines without triggering the detonation, my technicians will peel that explosive vest off your chest like wet paper. Then we begin the interrogation for real."
Dante let out a low, raspy chuckle that turned into a bloody cough. "You always were an arrogant bastard, Vance. You think you're holding all the cards. But you forgot one simple rule of engagement."
"And what is that?" Vance asked coldly.
Dante lifted his head, his eyes burning through the shadows directly toward the rusted catwalk where I stood concealed in the steam.
"Never back an apex predator into a corner," Dante murmured, his lips curving into a ghost of a smile. "And never, under any circumstances, threaten her family."
My breath hitched. He knew. Even battered, half-conscious, and chained to an iron girder, he had smelled me in the room.
"Kill him," Vance ordered, stepping back. "I don't need the encryption keys. We'll take the syndicate the hard way."
May you like
Two guards raised their assault rifles toward Dante’s chest.
I kicked open the iron hatch, leaping over the balcony railing into a thirty-foot drop, the Benelli shotgun roaring before my boots even touched the earth.
