Chapter 5 - The Siege of Warehouse 4B
Glass shattered overhead as a heavy iron bolt crashed through the skylight, followed by a thick canister of tear gas that hissed furiously against the concrete floor.
"Down!" Rocco roared, grabbing Maeve by the shoulder and pulling her behind a massive stack of steel shipping crates just as automatic gunfire chewed through the corrugated metal siding. Splinters of wood and chunks of concrete exploded into the air.
"How did he get out of the vault?" Maeve coughed, shielding her face from the biting white smoke.
"He had a duplicate key card embedded in his belt buckle," Rocco growled, drawing a sleek, suppressed Glock from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed. "Never underestimate a desperate accountant with a God complex."
Footsteps echoed heavily across the concrete floor. At least a dozen mercenaries—men Dominic had hired through private military contractors using stolen syndicate funds—were swarming the warehouse, clearing aisles methodically with tactical shotguns and submachine guns.
"They're flanking us from the left," Maeve said, her eyes scanning the rafters and shadows with cold precision. She didn't panic. Instead, she reached down, snatching a heavy wrench off a maintenance cart. "They think we're cornered."
"Are we?" Rocco asked, a grim smile touching the corners of his mouth.
"Only if we play by their rules," Maeve replied.
Before Rocco could answer, a mercenary rounded the corner of the crate stack, raising his rifle. In one fluid motion, Maeve hurled the heavy wrench with lethal accuracy. It caught the gunman squarely in the temple, dropping him instantly before he could pull the trigger.
Rocco stepped out from cover, firing twice with absolute, ruthless precision. Two more mercenaries dropped in the distance, neutralized before they even registered where the shots had come from.
"Not bad for an old man who spent five years in a wheelchair," Rocco muttered, keeping his weapon raised as they moved deeper into the labyrinth of crates.
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"You had a lot of time to practice upper-body strength," Maeve retorted, grabbing the fallen mercenary’s submachine gun and checking the clip. "Now, how do we get to the exit without turning into swiss cheese?"
"We don't," Rocco said, his eyes locking onto the heavy industrial control panel near the back wall. "We turn the tables."
