Chapter 8 - The Siege
The warehouse erupted in a cacophony of shattering glass and heavy-caliber fire. The Syndicate didn't care about collateral damage; they wanted the prototype and they wanted the witnesses erased.
Garrett shoved Eleanor behind a stack of industrial crates, his hand steady even as bullets shredded the air around them. "Stay low," he commanded, his voice dropping into that cool, combat-hardened cadence he hadn't used in years. He didn't have his full kit, but he had the environment. He pulled two flash-bangs from his belt—leftovers from his days as a operator—and tossed them in a precise arc.
The white-hot blinding light gave him the three seconds he needed. He moved with lethal fluidity, closing the distance between him and the first two mercenaries. It wasn't about anger; it was about geometry and pressure points. Two swift, decisive strikes, and they were down. He retrieved their sidearms—cold, efficient steel.
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"Garrett!" Eleanor shouted over the gunfire. "The transmission is at 85%! If we lose the uplink now, all of this was for nothing!"
"I’m not losing anything today!" Garrett roared. He held the position, turning the warehouse into a killing floor. He used the cover of the shadows, the rhythm of his breathing synchronized with the fire. He was the ghost of the battlefield, turning the mercenaries' own aggression against them. But he took a grazing shot to the shoulder, the burn sharp and hot. He didn't flinch. He couldn't. He was a father fighting for his daughter’s future, and a soldier fighting for the woman who gave him a second chance.
