Chapter 6 - Tactical Reclamation
The first mercenary stepped past the reception desk, his rifle raised, his infrared goggles scanning the heat signatures in the room.
From the dark ceiling above the maintenance alcove, a shadow dropped.
Dean landed behind the mercenary without a sound. Before the man could turn, Dean’s left hand clamped around his helmet, twisting his neck with a sharp, brutal CRACK.
In the same fluid motion, Dean stripped the tactical knife from the fallen soldier’s vest, caught his falling rifle before it hit the floor, and melted back into the dark corridor before the body even hit the ground.
Down the hallway, two mercenaries were approaching the sunroom door where Ruby and Mrs. Hoang were huddled in terror.
"Room clear! Securing the child!" one mercenary yelled into his radio.
Dean stepped out of the server room doorway twenty feet behind them.
PEW! PEW!
Two rapid, double-tap shots from Dean's suppressed SIG Sauer struck the first mercenary in the base of his skull. The second mercenary swung his rifle around, but Dean was already moving—closing the distance like a lunging panther.
Dean grabbed the rifle barrel, jammed his thumb behind the trigger to prevent a shot, drove the tactical knife into the mercenary's chest plate seam, and slammed him face-first into the concrete wall.
The man slumped to the floor, motionless.
Inside the sunroom, the door flew open. Ruby shrank back against the sofa, clutching her sketchbook to her chest.
"Mr. Dean!" she gasped.
Dean stepped into the doorway, his weapon lowered, his breath steady despite the violent struggle. He crouched down to Ruby's level, sweeping a smudge of soot from his cheek.
"Hey, kiddo," Dean said softly, his voice impossibly gentle amidst the carnage outside. "You okay?"
Ruby nodded fast, her big eyes wide. "Are those the bad men who don't like math?"
A faint, grim smile touched Dean's lips. "Yeah. But they're bad at algebra."
He turned to Mrs. Hoang. "Take Ruby into the executive bathroom behind the reinforced door. Lock it. I'll be back in two minutes."
Dean stepped back out into the hallway, racking the slide of his captured assault rifle.
Two mercenaries remained, including the team leader—a broad-shouldered operative named Sterling, a former rogue contractor whom Dean recognized from his Syria deployment six years ago.
Sterling was standing inside the server room, holding a thermite explosive over the main data mainframe while holding a gun to Marcus Chen's head.
"Kesler!" Sterling screamed into the dark hallway, his voice echoic and crazed. "I know it's you! I recognized your tactical signature the moment my boys dropped! You should have stayed dead in Syria, Master Chief!"
Dean stepped calmly into the doorway of the server room. The red emergency lighting reflected off his cold, impassive face.
"Hello, Sterling," Dean said flatly, his rifle pointed at the floor.
"Drop the weapon, Kesler!" Sterling snarled, pressing his handgun harder against Marcus Chen's temple. "Or I blow this engineer's brains across the server rack, and my boy upstairs detonates the thermite! Vanguard gets what they want either way!"
"Vanguard isn't going to pay you, Sterling," Dean said, taking a slow, measured step forward. "Because Vance’s offshore accounts were frozen by the FBI fifteen minutes ago."
Sterling blinked, a flash of hesitation crossing his eyes. "You're lying!"
"Am I?" Dean raised his left hand, showing a small handheld tablet displaying a live financial feed. "I had Marcus hardcode a tripwire into the Aegis-X system. The moment your EMP hit our power grid, an automated federal indictment trigger sent Vance’s wire transfer logs straight to the Department of Justice."
Sterling’s eyes flicked to the tablet for a fraction of a second—
That single fraction of a second was all Dean needed.
Dean fired three rapid shots through the server rack frame. The bullets pierced the metal housing, striking Sterling in his shoulder and wrist!
"AGHH!" Sterling screamed, dropping his handgun as his grip failed.
Marcus Chen scrambled backward on his hands and knees as Dean closed the distance, caught Sterling by the throat, and slammed him onto the steel floor of the server room, pinning him with his boot on his chest.
Dean leaned down, his face inches from the mercenary leader's bleeding face.
"This is for SEAL Team Six," Dean whispered coldly.
He struck Sterling across the jaw with the butt of his rifle, knocking the mercenary unconscious instantly.
The silence that returned to the 31st floor was absolute.
Camille ran down the hallway, her suit jacket rumpled, her face pale, and stopped at the entrance of the server room. She looked at the neutralized mercenaries, at Marcus Chen who was shaking but alive, and finally at Dean, who stood amidst the rubble like an unbreakable pillar of steel.
Dean turned, lowered his rifle, and looked at her.
"The floor is secure, Mrs. Westbrook," Dean said, his voice returning to its familiar, low baritone. "The software is intact."
May you like
Camille didn't care about the software. She ran across the room, threw her arms around Dean’s neck, and buried her face into his shoulder.
Dean froze for a second in shock, unused to human touch after years of isolation, before slowly, gently wrapping his strong arms around her waist, holding her close as the distant sound of police sirens began to wail through the foggy streets below.
