Chapter 22 - The Cross on the Neck
The floodlight glared down from the catwalk, casting long, skeletal shadows across the rusted floor of the submarine pen. Jo stood in the center of the open concrete apron, her hands held slightly away from her sides, the rain plastering her blond hair to the sides of her face. Her breathing was controlled, steady—the breathing of a woman who had already stared into the abyss and refused to blink.
"I’m here," Jo called out, her voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls. "Let the boys go. They have nothing to do with this. They're just children."
On the elevated metal catwalk, the guard chuckled—a dry, rasping sound that carried over the roar of the ocean. He shifted his weight, the heavy canvas of his tactical vest scraping against the rusted railing. As he leaned forward into the harsh cone of white light, a glint of silver caught Daniel’s eye from thirty yards away.
It wasn't just a scar. It was a tattoo, visible just above the collar of the man's black combat shirt—a distinct, jagged cross burned directly into the flesh of his neck.
Daniel’s heart skipped a beat. *The same mark the courier described.* The same burn scar worn by the operative who had overseen the liquidation of Apex Bio-Systems seven years ago. The man wasn't just a hired thug; he was an executioner from the company's internal security wing—a ghost known in military intelligence black-books only as "The Undertaker."
"You always were reckless, Joanna," the man on the catwalk said, his voice dripping with venomous nostalgia as he reached up with a scarred hand to touch the cross on his neck. "Just like your old man. He thought he could hide the ledger in a digital time-capsule and think the world would forget. But the world doesn't forget. And neither do I."
"Markus," Jo breathed, her eyes widening in sudden, unadulterated terror as she recognized the voice. "You... you were the one who set the fire."
"And now I'm going to finish what I started," Markus snarled, leveling the barrel of his shotgun directly at Jo’s chest. "Bring the ledger to the edge of the slipway. Drop it in the water, or I let the kids take the drop right now."
In the shadows beneath the gantry crane, Daniel didn't hesitate. The tactical training of a dozen classified deployments took over, stripping away emotion and leaving behind pure, calculated mechanics. He adjusted his windage by half a mil, compensated for the heavy coastal spray, and squeezed the trigger.
*Puff.*
The suppressed MK18 whispered in the damp air.
On the catwalk, Markus jerked violently as a 5.56mm round punched through the steel railing inches from his shoulder, showering him with razor-sharp metal splinters.
"Sniper!" one of the ground guards screamed, dropping behind a stack of oil drums near the southern wall.
"Now, Jo!" Daniel roared, breaking cover and sprinting toward the metal staircase leading to the catwalk, his rifle tracking targets with lethal precision.
Jo didn't hesitate. She threw herself sideways behind a heavy concrete generator housing as a blast from Markus’s shotgun chewed up the concrete where she had been standing a split second before, sending a geyser of sparks and dust into the air.
Daniel hit the base of the stairs, his combat boots hammering against the metal treads as he ascended three at a time. A guard leaned out from behind a stack of supply crates at the top of the landing, raising a pistol, but Daniel was faster. A double-tap to the center mass sent the man tumbling backward over the railing, splashing heavily into the dark water of the dry dock below.
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"Daniel!" Jo’s frantic scream echoed from below. "The boys! They're cutting the rope!"
Daniel reached the top of the catwalk just as Markus—bleeding from a shrapnel graze on his shoulder—slammed a heavy steel door leading to the control room and threw the locking bolt from the inside.
