Chapter 194: The Critical Hour

Chapter 194: The Critical Hour

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Harry stepped out of the drifting smoke, clapping slowly, sparing no praise. "Exactly what I'd expect from a top-trained veteran operative. Your vigilance, your reflexes—flawless."

"Shame that…" His voice cooled. "In the face of absolute power, none of it means a thing."

He crossed to Monica where she lay writhing on the floor, reached into his suit jacket, and drew out a cold metal syringe. Without a flicker of hesitation, he drove it into her carotid artery.

"What I just injected into you is the newest thing we've developed. Subcutaneous nano-explosives."

He withdrew the empty syringe and rose, elegant, like a man presenting a work of art.

"Each one's about a hundred times finer than a strand of your hair. As for quantity—call it a few thousand. They're already riding your bloodstream, latching onto the nerves of your brainstem as we speak."

He produced a black detonator no bigger than a car key.

"All I have to do is press this little red button…"

His hand flew open in front of her face, fingers splaying in a mock explosion. "Boom. Your head pops like an overripe watermelon. Red mist, everywhere."

Monica lay flat, one hand clamped over her ruptured liver, breath coming in ragged bursts.

She knew exactly how the people from the underworld and Wall Street operated. Cold-blooded. And they always followed through.

She dragged her head up, glaring at that smiling face.

"What do you want me to do?"

Harry looked into her eyes, his tone as easy as if he were ordering a coffee. "Simple. I want you to help me kill Caesar."

...

【Back to the present】

Nevada. The winding mountain road through Red Rock Canyon.

Caesar listened to the end of Monica's account, then flicked the cigarette—burned down to the filter—off into the black void of the cliff.

"Harry. That traitor." He gave a cold laugh. "Guy really can't get me out of his head, can he?"

He turned and walked back to the mangled wreck of the reinforced Hummer.

He hooked both hands under the buckled edge of the hood. The muscle in his arms bunched and corded, and with a shriek of tortured metal, he tore the entire heavy slab of the hood clean off and threw it back.

Monica forced herself upright in the grass, eyes full of wariness.

"What are you doing?"

Caesar didn't look back. His hands dug through the tangle of the engine bay.

"Saving your life."

He ripped through the insulation feeding the high-voltage ignition coil and yanked free two lines—one red, one black. With the tactical knife on his belt, he stripped the casings fast and fashioned two crude electrodes. Then he came back and pressed one into each of her hands.

"That nano-explosive Harry uses—it's discreet, sure. But it's got one fatal design flaw."

His voice was flat, clinical. "It relies on an extremely weak electrical signal to hold its detonation logic together. Run a big enough instant power surge through you, and the nanochips inside overload. Fry themselves completely."

Monica stared at the wires in her hands, skin crawling. "Are you insane?! That kind of current will cook me alive!"

"You shot yourself full of Enhancement Serum. You won't die." Caesar was already walking toward the Hummer's driver's seat. "I'll juice you on three."

"Three."

He never said two or one. He just twisted the ignition key.

BZZZT—CRACK!

A savage torrent of high voltage tore through Monica's entire body in an instant.

"AAAAAHHHH—!!!"

She let out a shrieking scream, her whole frame snapping rigid, eyes rolling white, foam bubbling at her lips. Her limbs convulsed like a frog on a wire, completely out of her control, every vein under her skin bulging up dark and swollen.

A full five seconds passed before Caesar released the key and pulled the wires loose.

Monica collapsed into the grass like a boneless heap, faint wisps of gray smoke rising off her body, chest heaving as she sucked down huge gulps of air.

Caesar dusted off his hands and looked down at her.

"Done."

...

At that same moment.

Miles away, on the outer highway running past the Williams Group's Nevada factory.

A black armored Maybach limousine sat quietly in the dark.

Harry lounged in the plush back seat, the black detonator remote turning idly over and over in his palm.

In the front passenger seat, a tactical tech was hunched over a military-grade ruggedized laptop, fine-tuning the tracking signal.

Then—

The red dot on the screen flared violently. A heartbeat later it burst into a blinding wall of static, then died into a flat, silent gray.

The tech's face changed. His fingers hammered out a rapid string of commands, but the data on the screen didn't so much as twitch.

"Boss! Monica's telemetry signal just dropped!"

Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. "The sensor logged one enormous power surge… the nanochips are completely fried!"

He didn't get to finish.

Harry had already drawn a suppressed SIG Sauer and pressed the muzzle to the back of the tech's skull.

Thup.

A dull cough. The tech's head lolled sideways, blood splattering across the windshield. Dead where he sat.

Harry holstered the pistol, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his hands—his tone as detached as a man dropping trash into a bin.

"Useless."

He shoved the door open and stepped into the night in his gleaming leather shoes.

"Let's move."

Behind him, the doors of several black SUVs swung open in unison. Two dozen mercenaries in black tactical vests, armed to the teeth, poured out, working charging handles and pulling down night-vision optics.

Harry unbuttoned his suit jacket. His eyes turned utterly bloodthirsty.

"Can't get it done clean, we do it loud. Level the whole factory."

...

The factory's front gate.

The night-shift security guard was sipping his coffee when he caught the sight of seven or eight black shapes closing fast through the dark, assault rifles up.

He set the cup down and leaned out. "Who the hell are you?! This is private prop—"

The answer was a single, precisely placed 5.56 round.

Thwip!

The bullet punched clean through his chest.

"Aaargh—!" The guard collapsed screaming into a spreading pool of blood, slamming the alarm at his hip on the way down.

An earsplitting siren tore through the night.

"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!!!"

The entire Williams Group factory exploded into chaos. Harry's fully armed men surged in like a black tide, savagely blowing the gates open and flooding through.

...

Third floor of the office building.

Elizabeth was in the president's office, paging through the files of the newly hired security personnel.

Dense gunfire cracked out into the night.

Her head snapped up, pupils shrinking. That sound—automatic rifles ripping on full auto—she knew it too well.

Heavy, frantic tactical boots came pounding down the corridor.

Bam. Marlowe shouldered the door open, an M4 carbine in his hands, his voice rough and urgent.

"Ms. President! Someone's storming the factory with heavy firepower! They tore straight through the outer perimeter—they're almost to the office building!"

The calm drained from Elizabeth's face, leaving it several shades paler.

Almost on reflex, she snatched the encrypted phone off the desk and dialed Caesar.

"Caesar!"

She kept her voice under brutal control. "Someone's assaulting the factory with assault rifles. Heavy firepower. I think… they're here for me."

On the other end, Caesar's entire aura dropped to a temperature like ancient glacial ice.

"Harry. That bastard. He's begging to die."

In an instant Caesar understood the play. Harry had never expected a washout like Monica to actually kill him. The nano-bomb, the assassination attempt—all of it was nothing but a stall.

It was a viciously clever lure the tiger from the mountain.

Caesar's expression turned lethal. He was in the middle of Red Rock Canyon—a solid few dozen miles from the factory. Even if he drove the Hummer flat-out until it flew, there was no way in hell he'd make it back in time.

And in that hopeless moment—

WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP—

A deafening roar of rotor blades came tearing down over the canyon.

A UH-60 Black Hawk gunship swept in low and wild, closing fast.

Its blinding tactical spotlight lanced down onto the road ahead of Caesar.

The bird's side door was already slid open. A figure leaned half out into the buffeting wind, arm pumping down at the ground.

"Boss!"

James didn't even bother clipping in. He grabbed a fast-rope and slid straight down out of the fifty-foot sky.

Watching him drop out of the heavens, Caesar's expression—drawn tight, murderous—finally eased.

"What are you guys doing here?"

James jogged up to him and slapped the plate carrier over his chest, grinning.

"The Big Boss sent us to back you up!"

He flashed his teeth. "And he says—cut loose. Go kick those sons of bitches' asses."

Caesar smiled. There was a thick reek of blood in that smile.

"Good. Then, brothers—we ride into war together one more time."

James turned and threw a tactical signal up at the hovering chopper.

Two fully kitted special operators worked the winch together, lowering a massive military-grade silver blast case down to the ground.

James walked over, keyed in his iris scan and the code.

Ka-chak.

The case popped open. Under the glare of the spotlight, the cutting-edge gear inside gleamed with a cold, lethal metallic light.

Top layer—a matte-black tactical body armor. Its surface was patterned fine as dragon scales, nothing like the bulky, coarse feel of standard Kevlar.

Second layer—rows of tactical magazines and two heavily modified modular automatic weapons.

At the bottom—neat racks of specialized ammunition, every round tipped with a dark gold coating.

James lifted out the armor and handed it to Caesar with both hands.

"Our newest plating."

His voice ran hot with excitement. "A third the weight of standard armor, triple the protection. And these—tungsten-core slugs. One shot rips through the highest-grade Level IV plate. Punches straight through the ballistic glass on a light armored vehicle."

Caesar reached out and took the vest, feeling that cold touch—strange and yet achingly familiar. The war-blood in him started to boil over.

"Well, since the gear's delivered right to my door—tonight, we go to war."

He pulled the armor on, swept up an assault rifle one-handed, and vaulted straight into the chopper.

The black Black Hawk yanked its nose up hard, banking around, and screamed toward the factory at full throttle like death itself.

...

At the same time.

Inside the factory, the fighting had turned it into a war zone.

"Don't stop for anything! Push in!"

Harry strode over spent brass littering the floor, his eyes wild. "That Elizabeth woman—I want her alive!"

Third floor. The president's office.

Elizabeth stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the muzzle flashes stutter and flare in the dark below.

She forced herself to breathe deep. She knew she absolutely could not lose her head. On Wall Street or on a battlefield, panic solved nothing.

Right then, Caesar's encrypted line rang back.

"Elizabeth. Put Marlowe on." Caesar's voice came through over the roar of the chopper.

She asked nothing—just handed the phone straight to the fully armed Marlowe beside her.

"Caesar! It's Marlowe!"

The voice on the other end said a few things. Marlowe's eyes went razor-sharp in an instant, and he nodded hard.

"Yes! Understood! Don't worry—I've got it!"

He hung up and returned the phone to Elizabeth. His face had gone grim in a way she'd never seen before, wearing the flat resolve of a man who'd already made peace with dying.

"Ms. Williams. No matter what happens out there, you lock this door and you do not come out. Ever."

"Caesar's already set everything in motion. He's almost here."

With that, Marlowe racked the bolt on his rifle, walked out of the office without a backward glance, and threw the deadbolt on the steel corridor door behind him.

Elizabeth stood rooted where she was, baffled—but a heavy, gnawing dread was rising in her chest.

Out of the office, Marlowe took the staff elevator straight down to the underground parking garage.

And meanwhile, one floor up—

Harry and his two dozen elite mercenaries had smashed their way through like a wrecking crew, all the way into the ground-floor lobby of the office building.

"Boss! Surveillance is reporting Elizabeth's personal bodyguard just booked it down to the underground garage! The woman's probably down there trying to get to a car and run!"

Harry gave a cold laugh and threw a tactical signal.

"Everyone—converge on the basement, now! Seal every exit. She does not get out."

Harry and his men had barely charged down the ramp into the garage—

when a pair of blinding high beams slammed into them head-on.

Reflexively, Harry threw up an arm against the glare.

Behind the wall of light—

Marlowe sat gripping the wheel of a heavy Ford F-150 loaded down with industrial high-pressure gas cylinders and C4, both hands locked hard, and he stomped the accelerator flat to the floor.

"COME ON, YOU SONS OF BITCHES!!!"

His eyes bloodshot, Marlowe let out a beast's roar and drove the multi-ton steel monster straight into the mass of Harry's men.

Harry didn't so much as give a half-step of ground.

Through the searing headlights, he watched the raging Marlowe behind the wheel, and a cruel sneer curled at the corner of his mouth.

"Suicidal little fool."

The seven or eight mercenaries behind him raised their automatic rifles as one.

"OPEN FIRE!!!"

BRRRAP-BRRRAP-BRRRAP—!!!

An overwhelming storm of 5.56 poured out like driving rain.

The truck's windshield turned into a wasp's nest in a heartbeat. Marlowe's body armor was punched through, chest and shoulder taking round after round, blood instantly soaking the wheel.

The front tire blew out. The truck lost all control.

But in the last second before consciousness left him, Marlowe kept his boot mashed on the gas and yanked the wheel hard.

The pickup veered violently away from the crowd and, with all its horrific momentum, plowed straight through the steel door at the far end of the garage—the one marked HIGH VOLTAGE — DANGER.

CRASH—!

A great gout of blood spewed from Marlowe's mouth.

Rifle up, Harry walked in no particular hurry to the smoking window.

He looked at the man in the driver's seat—blood-drenched, barely clinging to life—and sneered with contempt.

"You're just like Caesar. Brainless meat, all of you. You really thought you'd crush me with one crappy truck?"

Marlowe's blood-slick lips twitched faintly.

He looked up at Harry, split his mouth wide, and gave him an expression of pure, savage mockery.

"See you in hell… you arrogant prick."

With the very last of his strength, Marlowe pressed the remote in his hand—the one wired to the C4.

Harry's gaze followed Marlowe's eyes back the way he'd come. His pupils detonated into a magnitude-ten earthquake.

The truck hadn't punched through some ordinary wall. It had torn straight into the office building's main electrical room.

"FUCK! FALL BACK—!!!"

BOOOOOOM—!!!

The C4 and the high-pressure cylinders in the truck bed touched off all at once.

A monstrous explosion erupted through the basement. The violent shockwave and blast of fire hurled Harry and the mercenaries nearest him flying.

When the flames died down, all that remained in the garage was rolling smoke and the acrid stink of scorched metal.

"Cough— cough— Boss! We've got a problem!"

A soot-blackened mercenary hauled himself upright, screaming in terror. "The electrical room's destroyed! The whole building's main power grid is offline!"

As he shouted it, every light in the office building died at once, plunging the place into a dead, absolute darkness.

Harry climbed to his feet, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. That once-elegant face was corded with bulging veins now, and his fists clenched so hard the knuckles cracked.

At last he understood.

That fool named Marlowe had never intended to kill him with the truck at all.

His target had been the building's power supply.

The instant the whole building lost electricity, every access door and blast shutter would trip into physical lockdown mode.

Harry made the call instantly, grinding the order out through his teeth. "The elevators are dead—take the stairs! Blow every door! I want that woman dragged out of here!"

...

And at that moment—

In the pitch-black office on the third floor—

By the moonlight bleeding in through the window, Elizabeth heard them coming down the corridor. Boots. Heavy, fast, tactical.

Not one man. A whole pack of them.

The footfalls hammered up the stairwell, closer and closer, like the approach of death itself.

Elizabeth clutched a small pistol in a death-grip, her palm slick with cold sweat.

Finally.

The footsteps stopped outside the deadbolted office door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Someone was knocking.

Then, through the door, came a voice—one she knew intimately.

"Elizabeth. Open the door. It's me."

Her eyes flew wide, her face flooding with disbelief.

The man on the other side of that door… was that Caesar's voice?!