Chapter 8 - The Siege of Pier 42
Red laser points danced across the frosted glass windows of the warehouse roof.
"Under the workbench. Don't move until I tell you," Silas whispered, his posture transforming into that of an apex predator.
Clara crawled beneath the heavy timber desk just as the windows shattered inward in an explosion of flashbang grenades. The world turned blinding white and deafeningly loud.
Silas didn't flinch. Moving by muscle memory and shadow, he fired into the rafters. Bodies fell like heavy sacks onto the concrete floor. Smoke poured into the room, followed by the heavy thud of automatic weapon fire chewing through the metal filing cabinets, shredding decades of secrets into confetti.
Silas advanced through the smoke like a ghost. Clara watched from beneath the table as his shadow moved through the fog—every shot deliberate, every movement economical. A mercenary lunged at him with a combat knife; Silas caught the man's wrist, snapped it backward with a sickening crack, took the blade, and drove it down through the attacker's collarbone.
Suddenly, an armored vehicle smashed through the warehouse roll-up door, headlights blinding the room. Marcus stood atop the roof turret, operating a heavy machine gun.
May you like
"Drop your weapons, Silas!" Marcus roared. "You can't fight a whole army for a dead man's daughter!"
Silas dove behind a steel forklift as heavy rounds tore through the engine block, sending sparks and hot oil spraying across the floor. He looked toward the workbench where Clara was hiding. The rounds were walking straight toward her position.
