Chapter 9 - THE WAR FOR CHICAGOBullets ricocheted off the concrete walls in a furious, ear-splitting symphony of violence.
From my vantage point in the elevated control room, I ducked down behind a heavy steel console, my heart hammering against my ribs as glass shattered around me. Down on the warehouse floor, Grant’s men instantly returned fire, diving behind massive concrete pillars and industrial machinery as a wave of heavily armed mercenaries in tactical gear swarmed through the shattered doors.
Viktor Vance had sent his entire private strike force. They didn't just want to rescue Reed; they wanted to wipe Grant Mercer and everyone connected to him off the face of the earth.
“Grant!” I screamed into the two-way comms radio clipped to my collar.
“Stay down, Emily!” Grant’s voice barked back over the headset, punctuated by the sharp crack of his own firearm returning suppressive fire. “Do not leave that room!”
Through the reinforced glass, I watched Grant move with terrifying, lethal precision. He fired with calculated calm, dropping two mercenaries who tried to flank his position before diving behind a massive steel shipping container.
But Viktor Vance’s men kept pouring in. There were too many of them.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door of the control room behind me groaned under the weight of a violent strike.
SLAM!
Someone was trying to break the lock from the outside.
My breath hitched. I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, frantically looking for anything to defend myself. My fingers brushed against a heavy wrench left on the desk. I gripped it tightly, my knuckles turning white, staring at the door handle as it jiggled violently.
CRACK!
The lock shattered. The door swung open.
A massive mercenary stepped into the control room, his assault rifle raised, scanning the shadows for targets. His eyes locked onto mine beneath the glow of the computer monitors.
He grinned behind his balaclava. “Got the nurse.”
Before he could pull the trigger, the glass window behind him exploded inward.
A massive hand reached through the broken frame, gripping the mercenary by the back of his tactical vest with superhuman strength. With a brutal yank, the intruder was hauled right out the second-story window, plummeting headfirst onto the concrete floor below with a sickening crash.
I gasped, scrambling to my feet.
Framed in the shattered window stood Grant Mercer. His suit jacket was torn at the shoulder, a shallow graze bleeding down his left forearm, but his eyes were blazing with pure, focused fury.
He climbed through the shattered glass, stepping into the control room, and grabbed my shoulders, checking me over in a fraction of a second.
“Are you hit?” he demanded.
“No! No, I’m okay!” I breathed heavily, trembling uncontrollably.
“Good,” Grant said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, resolute register. “Because the party is just getting started.”
He handed me a heavy, encrypted radio handset. “Hold this. If anyone else comes through that door, you press the orange button. Maya’s drones outside will level the entire loading dock. Do you understand?”
May you like
I nodded frantically, clutching the radio to my chest.
Grant turned and leaped back out through the window into the chaos below, diving headfirst into the final, brutal clash for the soul of Chicago.
