Chapter 3 - BLOOD IN THE LIMESTONE CORRIDORSThe lights flickered back on, but they glowed a harsh, emergency crimson.
The Citadel’s interior corridors—usually a quiet gallery of modern art and polished stone—were now a killing zone.
Three elite operatives dressed in matte-black tactical gear, their faces hidden behind reinforced ceramic helmets, moved silently down the west hallway. They carried suppressed submachine guns, their boots making no sound against the Persian rugs. They moved like ghosts, trained by the most expensive private military contractor money could buy.
They rounded the corner toward the master suite.
Click.
The lead operator froze. His tactical HUD flashed a warning. A tripwire. No—something much worse.
From the ceiling panels above, twin automated defensive turrets dropped down with a mechanical whir, their dual barrels locked directly onto the trio's chests.
— Ambush! the lead operator shouted into his comms.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
The hallway erupted in deafening gunfire. Rubberized armor-piercing rounds chewed through the antique wainscoting, sending splinters and plaster flying. Two of the operatives dropped instantly, paralyzed by heavy-load shock rounds, screaming as they hit the marble floor.
The third operator threw a flashbang around the corner, blinding the hallway with searing white light.
— Clear the wing! Find the girl and retrieve the key! a voice barked through the surviving operator’s radio—a cold, cultured voice that sounded like old money and razor blades. Arthur Vane, head of the syndicate.
The surviving operator charged down the corridor, ducking past the smoking turrets, kicking open the double doors to the master study.
Empty.
The room was freezing. The wind whipped through the shattered smart-glass window. On the obsidian desk, a single note lay pinned down by Alfred’s heavy silver lighter.
The operator ripped the note off the desk and stared at the handwritten words scrawled in thick, black ink:
“You brought a knife to a war. Come and get it.”
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors behind the operator slammed shut with a thunderous bang.
The deadbolt locked itself with an electronic hum.
The operator spun around, raising his rifle—but the room was empty.
Except for a small, brown dog sitting calmly in the center of the Persian rug, head tilted, watching him with dark, calculating eyes.
Then, from the shadows behind the mahogany bookshelf, a voice spoke—so close it brushed against the operator's ear like the breath of the reaper.
— You're looking in the wrong direction.
Crack.
A heavy silencer muffled the bone-breaking snap. The operator slumped to the floor without a sound.
From behind the bookshelf, Alfred stepped out, adjusting his cuffs. He looked down at the fallen mercenary, then at Bruno, who gave a single, approving tail-wag.
— Good dog, Alfred murmured.
Viktor’s voice crackled through Alfred’s earpiece:
— Boss. Perimeter cameras are back online. We caught the feed from the extraction chopper hovering off the cliff. It’s not just a recovery team. Arthur Vane himself is leading the cleanup. And he brought heavy artillery.
May you like
Alfred’s eyes hardened into chips of obsidian.
— Let him come, Alfred said, gently patting Mila, who was safely hidden in the reinforced panic room behind the study. — This city is mine. It’s time I reminded them who pays the rent.
