Chapter 3 - Blood on the Wet Concrete
The garage descended into pandemonium as the fire suppression nozzles rained cold water over the screaming conduits. Blinded by the sudden plunge into near-total darkness, the mercenaries opened fire in tight, panicked bursts. Ricochets whined off the concrete pillars, tearing through the chassis of the luxury sedan and shattering its tinted glass into a thousand glittering shards.
Julian moved entirely on instinct and muscle memory. Lunging sideways beneath the cover of the dense mist, he closed the gap on the nearest shooter. With a vicious, upward strike of his palm, he broke the man’s nose, seized the barrel of the tactical rifle, and wrenched it free before driving his elbow into the operative's throat. The man collapsed like an empty sack.
""Clara! Stay low!"" Julian shouted over the roar of the alarms.
He scrambled back to the metal tub through puddles turning crimson with water and blood. Clara was huddled into a ball, water drenching her hair, her lips turning a faint shade of blue. Kneeling, Julian drew a folding tactical knife from his boot and sliced through the sodden jute ropes binding her wrists and ankles.
""Can you stand?"" he asked, his breath hot against her freezing ear.
""I... I can't feel my legs,"" she whispered, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.
May you like
Julian scooped her up into his arms, feeling the alarming lightness of her frail, soaked body. He turned toward the private service elevator tucked behind the emergency generator—the one exit Eleanor wouldn't know existed. But as he reached the metal security door, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing in the amber emergency glow near the control panel was Eleanor. Her ivory dress was drenched and stained with grease, but her right hand was steady. She was pointing a silver snub-nosed revolver straight at Clara’s temple.
