Chapter 52 - The Cold Water Protocol
The air in the concrete stairwell was thick with choking grey ash and the electrical reek of severed cables. Emergency klaxons wailed from deep within the building's spine, automated evacuation warnings droning in eerie, detached female tones.
"We have less than three minutes before progressive collapse pancakes this core," Marcus yelled, hoisting Mateo onto his shoulders while racking his sidearm. "Victoria had secondary contractors stationed on the mezzanine. If they hear the charges, they’ll seal the blast doors!"
Dante leaned heavily against the soot-blackened wall, clutching his ribs. Dark, arterial crimson was already soaking through his Kevlar vest, pooling beneath his torn shirt.
"Dante, you’re hit," I gasped, dropping to my knees beside him, pressing my palms against his flank.
"Shrapnel... from the first blast," he grunted through clenched teeth, his face pale under the layer of soot. He gripped my wrist, his thumb tracing the pulse point that hammered wildly beneath my skin. "Don't stop. Get Mateo out. The lakefront dock... slip forty-four."
"I am not leaving you here to bleed out in a stairwell after everything we survived!" I snapped, my voice shaking with fury and terror. I pulled his arm around my neck, forcing him upright with all the strength left in my trembling body. "We leave together. Or none of us do."
Mateo looked down from Marcus's shoulder, his huge brown eyes brimming with tears, his lip quivering. "Daddy... hold my hand."
Dante reached out, his bloodied fingers gently brushing Mateo's cheek. "I’m right here, buddy. Daddy’s right here. Keep your eyes on Uncle Marcus, okay?"
We sprinted downward through the stairwell as the concrete walls shuddered violently around us. Floor 70. Floor 60. Hairline fractures Spider-webbed across the ceiling, raining pulverized concrete into our hair.
At Floor 42, the fire doors burst open.
Three men in unmarked black tactical gear raised submachine guns. "Target acquired!"
Before the muzzle flashes could ignite, Marcus dropped low, drawing his sidearm in a fluid, lethal motion. Three suppressed double-taps cracked through the enclosed space. The mercenaries collapsed without a sound, their weapons clattering against the steps.
"They aren't private security," Marcus muttered, kicking an assault rifle down the shaft as he stepped over the bodies. "These are Castiglione’s off-book cleaning crews. They're here to make sure no one survives to claim the trust."
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"Then we make them choke on their own ashes," I whispered, picking up one of the dropped carbines and flicking off the safety.
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