Chapter 12 - Captured in the Crossfire
As they prepared to exit the warehouse, the roar of a high-powered engine ripped through the fog outside.
A heavily armored transport truck, the last reserve unit of the Vance syndicate, smashed through the warehouse security gates at fifty miles per hour. Heavy machine-gun fire tore through the office walls, showering Dominic and Nora in wood splinters and shattered glass.
“Down!” Dominic roared, diving across the room and wrapping his large frame around Nora, shielding her from the hail of armor-piercing bullets.
A sharp, searing pain tore through Dominic’s shoulder as a stray bullet grazed deep into his muscle. He grunted, blood immediately soaking through his dress shirt.
Nora felt the warmth of his blood on her skin.
Something inside her snapped.
The quiet, reserved woman who restored 18th-century oil paintings completely vanished, replaced by the legendary Cipher-9, the most feared black-ops operative in the western hemisphere.
“Stay down,” Nora commanded, her voice vibrating with a terrifying, absolute authority.
She retrieved a tactical remote detonator from her utility belt.
She had planted C4 charges across the entire structural foundation of the warehouse during their initial breach.
Nora sprinted toward the shattered window, vaulted over the frame, and landed effortlessly on a catwalk twenty feet above the armored truck.
The gunners in the back of the truck swiveled their heavy turret toward her, but Nora was already moving. She dropped two flash grenades directly into the truck’s open hatch.
BANG-FLASH.
Screams echoed from inside the vehicle. Nora dropped from the catwalk, landed on the roof of the armored cab, reached through the driver's window, and neutralized the driver with two swift strikes.
She kicked the passenger door open, dragged the remaining gunner out into the rain, and threw him to the concrete.
Standing in the center of the burning shipyard, rain washing the blood and gunpowder from her face, Nora looked at the remaining dozen West Side stragglers who were attempting to flee.
She held up the detonator.
“Drop your weapons,” Nora’s voice echoed across the yard, carrying the weight of an executioner. “Or I level this entire pier with you on it.”
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One by one, the mercenaries dropped their rifles into the mud and fell to their knees.
The West Side Syndicate was officially dead.
