Chapter 4: The Belly of the Beast
The drainage tunnel was exactly as Cyrus had predicted: claustrophobic, foul, and terrifying. The bikers waded knee-deep through freezing, murky water, their weapons held high above their heads. Silence was their only shield. The ambient hum of the meatpacking plant's massive industrial generators masked the sound of their splashing boots.
Cyrus led the pack, his eyes adjusted to the pitch blackness. After twenty grueling minutes, they reached the iron grate sealing the sub-basement. Jax pulled a pair of heavy bolt cutters from his back, quickly and silently snapping the rusted chains.
They pushed the grate aside and climbed into the dimly lit, freezing corridors of the Slaughterhouse. Condensation dripped from the ceiling, and the air smelled heavily of iron and old blood.
Cyrus signaled with two fingers. The crew split into two groups. Jax led his men toward the security hub to disable the cameras and communications, while Cyrus and three others pushed directly toward the holding cells.
They moved like phantoms. Two Syndicate guards patrolling the freezing hallway barely had time to blink before Cyrus and his men subdued them silently, dragging them into an empty meat locker.
Suddenly, the blare of a klaxon alarm shattered the silence. Red emergency lights began spinning frantically.
"Jax hit a tripwire in the server room!" Cyrus yelled over the noise. "Stealth is dead! Move! Move!"
The facility erupted into a warzone. Syndicate guards poured out of the stairwells, armed with automatic weapons. The bikers returned fire, ducking behind heavy steel crates and frozen meat hooks. Gunfire deafened the corridors, concrete exploding into dust as bullets chewed through the walls.
Cyrus pushed forward relentlessly, a titan of fury. He fired his heavy revolver, every shot finding its mark, clearing a path through the corridor. He reached the heavy steel doors of the main holding cell.
With a roar of effort, Cyrus and another biker kicked the heavy reinforced door. It groaned but held. Cyrus stepped back, pulled a small explosive breaching charge from his vest, slapped it onto the locking mechanism, and took cover.
A deafening explosion blew the door entirely off its hinges.
Cyrus rushed into the smoke-filled room.
Tied to a heavy steel chair in the center of the room was Elias. He was beaten, bloodied, and breathing heavily, but his head was held high. Standing over him was a man in a pristine white suit—the boss of the Iron Syndicate. He held a silver pistol leveled at Elias’s head.
"Drop it, biker," the boss sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Or the legend dies right here."
"Cyrus," Elias coughed, a bloody, defiant smile spreading across his face. "You got old, brother."
"And you got slow," Cyrus replied, keeping his gun aimed squarely at the boss's chest. "Let him go, suit. Your men are currently being dismantled in the hallways. You have no way out."
"I only need one bullet," the boss hissed, his eyes wide with desperate madness.
But he didn't account for the Raven.
May you like
Despite his brutal injuries, Elias suddenly threw his weight backward, shattering the wooden legs of the chair. He crashed to the floor, pulling the boss off balance.
In that split second of distraction, Cyrus fired.
