Chapter 14 - Shadows on the Concrete
"Drop to the floor, Julian," Marcus commanded, his voice dropping into cold, lethal efficiency.
I ducked behind the concrete pillar of the hydraulic lift, shoving the lockbox into my coat.
Outside, heavy combat boots splashed through the puddles of rain and debris.
Three figures entered the garage, their weapons equipped with tactical lights and long suppressors.
They moved with disciplined precision—not street thugs, but corporate mercenaries.
"Check the back office," a voice barked, low and guttural. "Cleaners said the safe was concealed."
"They're here for the work order," I whispered to Marcus.
"Stay behind me," Marcus replied.
Marcus leaned around the edge of the pillar and fired two rapid shots.
The suppressed cracks echoed like whips in the enclosed space.
The lead mercenary dropped instantly to the concrete floor with a heavy thud.
The remaining two shooters immediately scattered, opening fire on our position.
Sparks showered over us as bullets chewed into the steel beam above my head.
Concrete dust showered into my hair and burned my eyes.
I didn't have a weapon, but my physical strength had returned over the months of secret therapy.
I gripped a heavy steel crowbar lying among the charred rubble beside my feet.
One of the mercenaries rounded the corner of our pillar, his rifle raised.
Before he could pull the trigger, I lunged forward with explosive speed.
I swung the crowbar with all the fury and betrayal buried inside my chest.
The heavy iron bar shattered his wrist, sending his weapon clattering across the wet floor.
He gasped in agony, but I didn't give him time to recover.
I drove my shoulder into his ribs, slamming him against the brick wall.
Marcus stepped up from behind and pressed the cold muzzle of his pistol against the man's forehead.
"Who sent you?" Marcus growled.
The mercenary coughed blood onto his tactical vest, a sick grin spreading across his lips.
"You're already too late, Mr. Sterling," the man wheezed, looking at me.
"Give me a name!" I demanded, tightening my grip on his throat.
"The Board of Founders," he choked out. "They never lose."
Before Marcus could restrain his hands, the mercenary bit down hard on his back molar.
A sharp crunch echoed in the quiet garage.
Within three seconds, his body stiffened violently, his eyes rolled back, and white foam bubbled at his lips.
"Cyanide," Marcus cursed, stepping back as the man slumped lifelessly against the bricks.
The third shooter had already vanished into the rainy night, the roar of an accelerating engine fading down 14th Street.
I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"The Board of Founders," I muttered, looking at Marcus.
"That was the elite trust your father established thirty years ago," Marcus said, his face pale. "Only four people ever held seats."
"Three of them died a decade ago," I said, remembering the historic portraits in our boardroom.
"And the fourth?" Marcus asked.
I looked down at the blood on my hands, the truth crystallizing in my mind.
May you like
"The fourth is Alistair Thorne," I said. "My father's closest friend. And my godfather."
***
