Chapter 4 - BLOOD, GREASE, AND BETRAYAL
The Trap Snaps Shut! The Shocking Truth Behind the Livestream That Shook the World!Victor’s face turned a horrific shade of gray. "What did you say?"
Toby pointed up at the pristine, dead security cameras mounted on the ceiling. But they weren't dead. A tiny, blue fiber-optic wire had been spliced into the main trunk line right above the black supercar—the exact spot Toby had been leaning into when he first appeared. He hadn't just been fixing the engine; he had been hijacking the entire facility's secure uplink.
"The Marcus Hale Garage network has an unhackable military-grade satellite relay," Toby explained, his voice filled with a cold satisfaction. "Perfect for streaming high-definition product reveals to private investors. Or, in this case, streaming a confession of corporate murder, arson, and extortion to ninety million viewers worldwide."
"Kill him!" Victor shrieked, losing all his sophisticated composure. "Kill him now! Smash the car! Smash everything!"
Before a mercenary could pull a trigger, the garage's automated safety systems erupted. Toby hadn't just bypassed the engine; he had reprogrammed the workshop's defensive grid.
The overhead high-pressure fire suppression nozzles didn't spray water—they discharged a thick, blinding cloud of specialized chemical foam designed to smother electrical fires. In an instant, the garage was plunged into absolute whiteout conditions.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The mercenaries fired blindly into the foam, their muzzle flashes illuminating the thick white smoke like flashes of lightning. Bullets pinged off carbon fiber bodies and shattered against the steel hydraulic lifts.
"I can't see! I can't see!" one gunman screamed.
Through the chaos, a shadowy figure moved with unbelievable speed and agility. Toby knew this garage layout by heart; he had memorized the architectural blueprints before he ever set foot inside. He slid under the chassis of a nearby Lamborghini, popped up behind one of the disoriented mercenaries, and jammed a metal screwdriver directly into the electrical junction box on the wall.
The entire electrical grid of the building short-circuited with a massive, blinding flash.
The heavy, metallic roar of the supercar suddenly cut out. The room fell into a terrifying, suffocating silence, broken only by the groans of Marcus Hale bleeding out on the floor and the panicked coughing of Victor's men in the foam.
"Toby!" Victor roared, stumbling through the smoke, waving his pistol wildly. "You're dead! You hear me? You're dead!"
Suddenly, the thick steel gates at the front of the garage didn't just open—they were blown off their hinges by explosive breaching charges.
The heavy, synchronized stomping of combat boots filled the air, accompanied by the blinding glare of tactical flashlights cutting through the smoke.
"Federal Bureau of Investigation! Drop your weapons! Get on the ground now!"
The tactical team swarmed the room like an angry hornet nest. Within seconds, Victor’s mercenaries were slammed into the concrete floor, handcuffed, and disarmed. Victor himself was thrown against the hood of the very supercar he had tried to steal, his face pressed against the warm, pristine metal.
As the smoke cleared, the federal agents searched the room, looking for the boy who had initiated the global broadcast.
May you like
But the leather chair was empty. The small metal stool was overturned.
The boy was gone.
