Chapter 7 - Fire and Blood
The metal walls of the ventilation shaft were freezing cold against my elbows as I dragged myself forward through the dark, guided only by the faint smell of ozone and burnt wiring. Below me, through the thin metal grates, I could hear the heavy boots of syndicate operatives patrolling the hallway.
"Sweep the lower wing!" a harsh voice barked in the corridor below. "The boss wants Whitmore and the brat-minder eliminated. Leave no survivors."
I kept moving, my muscles burning, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I reached the junction box above the basement utility room and peered down through the rusted grate. Two syndicate thugs stood near the main electrical breaker panel, carrying heavy assault rifles and laughing casually.
"Easy money," one of them sneered, lighting a cigarette. "Once we torch this dump, look like a faulty wiring accident just like the last one."
I didn't hesitate.
I shoved my weight against the vent grate, kicking it outward with both boots. It crashed down onto the concrete floor with a deafening clatter. Before the two guards could even raise their weapons, I dropped out of the ceiling like a stone, landing squarely on top of the first operative, driving my elbow hard into his windpipe.
He collapsed instantly, gasping for air.
The second guard whipped his rifle around, but I lunged forward, grabbing the barrel and shoving it upward just as a burst of automatic fire chewed harmlessly into the concrete ceiling. I slammed my fist into his jaw, following up with a brutal sweep of my leg that sent him crashing hard against the breaker box. He slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Breathing heavily, I rushed to the main electrical panel.
The manual override switch had been locked out with a heavy steel padlock—the same lock Victor had installed. I grabbed a heavy wrench from the nearby tool rack, jammed it into the shackle of the padlock, and twisted with all my strength.
Snap.
The lock shattered. I threw the master switch upward.
Instantly, the entire basement hummed back to life. The ventilation fans roared overhead, pulling fresh, cool air through the shafts, and the brilliant white overhead lights flooded the room.
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I grabbed the assault rifle dropped by the first guard, checked the magazine—fully loaded—and turned toward the stairs leading back to the main house.
The war for Willow Creek Ranch was reaching its bloody climax, and I was heading straight into the eye of the storm.
