Chapter 170: The End

Chapter 170: The End

Preston stared at the vial, his lips twitching.

The explosions overhead grew louder, closer, more rapid. Chunks of concrete dust rained down in sheets. The entire bunker shook.

Then the reinforced iron door at the end of the tunnel blew inward from the outside.

The first person to charge through the smoke wore an Interpol tactical uniform. The second and third did too. But the group that followed them bore no insignia—all-black combat gear, faces painted with camouflage grease, every one of them carrying an HK416 with a red-dot sight.

Penelope recognized the figure leading them.

Sam.

He'd changed into tactical armor and wore a ridiculous-looking ballistic helmet, but the rifle in his hands was rock-steady. Half a step behind him, Sebastian carried portable communications equipment, rapidly reporting to someone through his headset.

"Penelope!" Sam shouted as he ran toward them. "Signal confirmed! Lock's solid! We took off from Harborview City four hours ago!"

Penelope didn't look at him. Her gaze fixed on the men in black.

After entering the tunnel, they didn't move to control anyone. Instead, they formed two neat lines flanking Dominic, weapons pointed outward—textbook VIP protection formation.

The man at the front removed his mask, revealing a hardened face marked by a horizontal scar. He looked at Dominic and struck his left chest hard with his right fist.

"Mr. Sinclair. It's been four years."

Dominic glanced down at him, gun barrel never leaving Preston's forehead.

"Iron Rift?" Penelope approached, scanning the black-clad figures.

"His old unit." Sam moved closer, lowering his voice. "Dominic didn't go by that name back in the merc world. His call sign was 'Havoc.' He built Iron Rift from the ground up. Later, Preston dismantled them over Project 07. We made contact through Sebastian's overseas intelligence network."

Penelope asked nothing more.

She walked to Jasmine's side, crouched down, and reached for the shackles on her wrists. Rust stained her hand. Jasmine's entire body trembled, her deep brown eyes brimming with cloudy tears.

"Mom." Penelope's voice came out soft, as if afraid to startle something. "Let's go. I'm taking you home."

The gunfire in the tunnel had completely stopped.

Preston's core security detail was either subdued or killed. Interpol agents were clearing rooms one by one, their radios constantly transmitting "clear" reports.

It was over.

Preston lay on the ground, too weak even to struggle. Dominic's boot still pressed into his chest.

But Preston was laughing.

This laugh was different from all his previous ones. Not triumphant—calculating. The laugh of someone who'd gone completely mad.

Preston's laughter made his entire body convulse on the floor. His withered hand suddenly shot sideways—the middle-aged man in the white coat had long since collapsed in terror, the test tube lying about two feet from his hand.

Dominic's pupils contracted sharply. His boot pressed down harder.

But Preston's next move caught everyone off guard.

He didn't try to open the test tube.

He shoved the glass tube directly into his mouth and bit down hard, shattering the upper half.

The sound of breaking glass rang out.

Dark red liquid mixed with bloody foam spilled from the corners of his mouth.

Everyone froze simultaneously.

Penelope's pupils dilated.

The high-explosive liquid at the bottom—its trigger condition was the pressure change when the cap opened.

But what if stomach acid corroded the semi-permeable membrane?

She whipped her head toward Sam.

Sam's face was covered in cold sweat, his lips trembling as he delivered the answer she least wanted to hear. "The membrane—acid resistance isn't enough. Once stomach acid concentration penetrates the membrane layer—roughly three to five minutes."

He was still a living bomb.

Sam's words still hung in the air, but everyone's attention had locked onto one fact—Preston lay on his back, dark red liquid streaming from his mouth, his body convulsing with laughter.

Dominic didn't move.

He looked down at the seventy-something Preston beneath his boot, his pupils showing no panic, only rapid calculation.

"Everyone out."

Dominic's voice wasn't loud, but Iron Rift responded like they'd received an electronic command. The entire line of black-clad figures turned and retreated toward the tunnel entrance. The Interpol captain hesitated for a second before Iron Rift's second-in-command grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away.

Sam rushed over. "Dominic, you—"

"Take her out."

Dominic finally turned his head. Those bloodshot eyes met Penelope's gaze. "Penelope, get your mom out of here. Now."

Penelope stared at him.

"What's your plan."

Dominic pulled a military-grade emetic injector from his tactical vest, spinning it once in his hand.

"He's worth more alive than dead. Twenty years of records in his head. If he dies, it all rots in his gut." As he spoke, he crouched down, pressing one knee into Preston's abdomen. "This stuff induces forced vomiting. I'm betting he hasn't fully swallowed the tube yet."

"You're betting?"

"Yes. Fifty-fifty odds."

Penelope's throat moved.

Fifty-fifty.

Win, Preston vomits up the fragments, the explosive loses its corrosive trigger, everyone lives. Lose, in three minutes everything within fifty feet of this bunker turns to charcoal.

Including him.

Preston lay on the ground, half his face smeared with bloody foam, those sunken eyes fixed on Dominic, laughing hoarsely. "You're saving me? You've lost your mind."

"I've always been crazy." Dominic removed the injector's safety cap. "You bite your tongue, I'll dislocate your jaw right now."

Penelope stood in place for three seconds.

After three seconds, she turned, scooped Jasmine off the floor, hoisting her entire weight onto her shoulder.

"Sam, take over. Sebastian, tell them to keep those helicopter engines running."

Her voice was completely steady.

No tears. No looking back. No wasting breath on things like "you better come back alive."

She walked five steps toward the tunnel. Stopped.

Back to Dominic:

"Dominic."

"What?"

"You still haven't finished what you owe me."

The footsteps in the tunnel gradually faded. Dominic listened as they disappeared completely around the corner, his mouth slowly curving.

"I owe you plenty. You'll have to give me time to pay it all back."

He looked down, aimed at the outside of Preston's withered thigh, and pushed the entire syringe in.

Preston's pupils contracted sharply, his entire body beginning to spasm uncontrollably. The violent emetic reaction triggered by the drug entering his bloodstream came fast and fierce. His gaunt frame arched, his throat producing horrific retching sounds.

Dominic's left hand pried open his mouth while his right hand's two fingers plunged without hesitation into that oral cavity full of glass shards and bloody foam.

Glass fragments sliced open his fingertips. He didn't even flinch.

His fingertips touched an angular foreign object. Still lodged at the throat's entrance. Hadn't reached the stomach.

He'd bet right.

He pinched the fragment between two fingers and dragged it out. Preston's jaw clenched instinctively—teeth biting down on his finger joints hard enough to make bone creak audibly.

Dominic didn't pull back.

His other injured left hand rose, gripping Preston's temporomandibular joint directly. Thumb and middle finger applied simultaneous pressure, forcing the jaw to dislocate.

Preston's mouth was forced open to its maximum width.

Dominic pulled the fragment—covered in blood and saliva—completely out. The semi-permeable membrane at the bottom of the glass tube remained intact, structure undamaged.

He set the fragment on the ground, three steps away from himself.

Then he sat down.

Back against the cold concrete wall, breathing heavily. In front of him lay Preston, jaw dislocated, body convulsing. Beside him, a floor covered in glass shards and dark red liquid.

His fingers were bleeding. His back was bleeding. His left hand had lost all feeling long ago.

He tilted his head back, looking at the industrial light fixture on the bunker ceiling, still flickering.

"Penelope."

He called out a name no one could hear.

His mouth curved.

Outside the tunnel, Penelope supported Jasmine as Sam helped them rush out of the bunker entrance. Aurelia's predawn tropical monsoon, thick with diesel fumes, hit them head-on. Three helicopters' rotors kicked up clouds of dust.

She got Jasmine into the cabin, then turned to look at the bunker entrance.

Black. Silent.

No explosion.

Sam stood behind her, lips moving, saying nothing.

Penelope stood for ten seconds.

Then she pressed the communications channel button on her watch.

"Dominic, respond if you copy."

Static.

Three seconds. Five seconds. Eight seconds.

A broken, weak voice tinged with laughter squeezed through the electrical noise:

"Penelope, that thing I owe you—"

"Tell me in person."

She cut the communication and turned to board.

The helicopter lifted off. The bunker below grew smaller and smaller, finally swallowed by jungle.

In the cockpit, someone was reporting follow-up clearance plans. Sebastian was coordinating evidence chain transfers with Interpol. Sam was conducting a preliminary physical assessment on Jasmine.

Penelope sat in a corner of the cabin, eyes closed.

The wound in her left palm where the tungsten hairpin had pierced through was still seeping blood. She hadn't bandaged it.

That pain kept her alert.

Reminded her that someone was still waiting.