Chapter 6 - THE RECKONING IN THE DARKChaos erupted instantly inside the warehouse.
Flashbangs detonated with blinding white light and concussive shockwaves that rattled the corrugated metal walls. Shouts, heavy combat boots stomping on concrete, and the rhythmic pop of suppressed gunfire filled the damp night air.
Warren moved through the smoke-filled room like a phantom, his tactical training from his youth in the military resurfacing with ruthless efficiency.
Bang. Bang.
Two mercenaries dropped their weapons, clutching their legs as they crumpled to the floor. Warren vaulted over a rusted oil drum, rolling smoothly across the concrete and coming up right behind a third guard who was swinging a tactical shotgun toward the doorway.
With a brutal strike to the back of the man's knees and a swift downward blow with the butt of his pistol, Warren dropped him unconscious into the mud.
"Marcus! Secure Elena!" Warren shouted over the din of battle.
Marcus sprinted through the crossfire, diving behind a row of empty steel drums before cutting the zip-ties binding Elena Lin to the chair. He hoisted the exhausted, trembling woman over his shoulder, firing cover shots with his submachine gun toward the catwalks above.
Kovacs, realizing the ambush was total, scrambled toward the emergency exit at the back of the warehouse, clutching a heavy leather briefcase containing the stolen financial drives.
"Hale!" Kovacs roared, turning around with a pistol drawn as he reached the exit door.
Warren didn't flinch. He stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, raising his weapon with absolute, ice-cold precision.
Clack.
Warren’s bullet caught Kovacs’ weapon, shattering the pistol frame and sending it spinning out of the mercenary’s hand. Before Kovacs could draw a backup knife, Warren closed the distance in three massive strides, slamming his fist into Kovacs’ chest with the full weight of a lifetime of suppressed rage.
Kovacs staggered backward, tripping over a rusted iron rail, and plunged headfirst into an open service pit below.
Silence descended upon the warehouse, broken only by the steady patter of rain leaking through the damaged roof.
May you like
Warren stood at the edge of the pit, breathing heavily, his hands slick with rain and adrenaline. He looked down at the briefcase lying beside the fallen mercenary. He picked it up, flipped the brass latches, and pulled out the glowing blue digital flash drive resting inside.
The evidence of the North Side collapse—and the absolute proof of Tyson’s innocence—was finally in his hands.
