Chapter 6 - The Ironworks at Dawn
The Pawtucket Ironworks was an abandoned industrial complex situated on the banks of the Seekonk River. Rusty iron girders, broken smokestacks, and rotting timber piers created a maze of shadows under the gray, freezing drizzle of four in the morning.
Two black vans sat parked inside the main foundry floor, their engines idling quietly in the vast, echoing cavern of brick and steel.
Inside the central office—a converted brick structure overlooking the main floor—three men in pristine white surgical gowns were setting up portable operating tables beneath high-intensity halogen work lights.
Dr. Marcus Thorne, a fifty-year-old man with silver hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, and meticulous, manicured hands, was busy calibrating a portable ophthalmic laser unit.
"Are the buyers secured?" Thorne asked without looking up from his display screen.
Marcus Vane, his face heavily bandaged from his encounter with Julian Voss at the diner, stood near the door holding an automatic shotgun.
"The team from Dubai is already at the perimeter," Vane spat bitterly, touching his broken nose. "The money is in escrow. Just make sure the harvesting goes faster this time. Voss is hunting us."
"Julian Voss is a criminal with a fancy coat," Thorne sneered coldly, adjusting his surgical gloves. "He wouldn't dare strike an open facility in Pawtucket. He has too much to lose with his legal shipping interests."
Suddenly, the heavy iron doors at the far end of the foundry didn't open—they exploded inward.
A massive charge of breaching explosive shattered the rusted iron hinges, blowing a cloud of smoke, fire, and twisted metal across the concrete floor.
Before the smoke could clear, four flashbang grenades detonated in rapid succession—BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG—filling the vast room with blinding white light and deafening shockwaves.
"Contact!" Vane shouted, dropping behind a wooden crate and firing his shotgun blindly into the smoke.
Through the white haze moved eight men in black tactical gear, firing controlled, two-round bursts with clinical precision. Vane’s hired guards were cut down before they could even draw their weapons.
Then came the dog.
Ghost burst through the smoke like an engine of vengeance. The massive black mastiff ignored the gunfire, bounding across the iron catwalks, his jaws locking onto the arm of a guard trying to aim a rifle at Dean Marsh. The man screamed as Ghost slammed him off the ten-foot railing onto the concrete floor below.
Dr. Thorne panicked. He grabbed his metal briefcase containing his surgical tools and bolted toward the rear fire exit.
He threw the heavy iron door open—and ran straight into the chest of Julian Voss.
Julian didn't shoot him. He grabbed Thorne by his expensive lapels, lifted the doctor off his feet, and threw him backward into the room, sending him crashing over his own operating table.
Surgical instruments, silver trays, and glass vials shattered across the floor in a chaotic cascade.
Thorne scrambled back against the brick wall, his gold glasses crooked on his face, his hands raised in terror as Julian stepped over the debris.
"Voss!" Thorne gasped, recognizing the hazel eyes staring down at him. "Wait! Listen to me! I saved your life! I gave you your sight back! You owe me!"
Julian slowly drew his sidearm, pulling the slide back to chamber a round with a heavy, metallic clack.
"You didn't give me anything, Thorne," Julian said, his voice carrying the terrifying weight of an absolute executioner. "You stole from a blind girl and murdered a brilliant man in his own clinic."
Behind Julian, the fire exit opened again.
Nora Ashford walked into the room, her hand resting lightly on Dean Marsh’s shoulder for guidance. Ghost trotted up to her side, his jaws dripping with blood, his heavy head pressing against her hip to signal that the room was secure.
Thorne stared at her pale, blind face, his jaw dropping in absolute horror.
"Nora..." Thorne whispered, his voice trembling.
May you like
Nora stopped ten feet away. She turned her head toward the sound of his voice, her dark glasses reflecting the harsh white glow of the fallen halogen lamps.
"Hello, Dr. Thorne," Nora said, her voice completely devoid of mercy. "My father sent me to collect your fee."
