Chapter 1 The Weight of Steel

The rain over the concrete shipyard didn't fall; it drove sideways, sharp as glass shards against the rusted corrugated steel of the shipping containers.

Vance didn't breathe through his mouth. Mouth-breathing was loud. It fogged glass. It gave away a position. He inhaled slow, rhythmic draughts of cold air through his nose, his ribs expanding against the heavy tactical canvas of his vest. The vest was damp, soaked in copper-smelling grime and rainwater, but the trauma plates inside were still intact.

Around him, the perimeter was locked down. Six men. Professional contract sweeps. They moved in a disciplined wedge formation, their flashlight beams slicing through the midnight downpour, illuminating the oil-slicked puddles on the ground. They carried short-barreled carbines, fingers resting lightly on the trigger guards. They weren't street thugs. They were clean, precise, and lethal.

Vance watched them from the shadow of a massive crane assembly, three meters above the asphalt. His face was entirely obscured by a heavy, dark-grey ballistic cowl—no eyes visible under the deep lip of the hood, no mouth exposed to the glare of the searchlights. To the men below, he was just part of the machinery.

"Target is down," a voice crackled through a low-frequency radio from the lead sweep below. "Area clear."

They think the ambush worked, Vance thought.

His right hand lowered. Tied to his forearm with heavy-duty black zip-ties was a modified 10-inch tool steel spike, ground down to a diamond point. No edge to dull, no fancy hilt to snag. Just a tool meant to pierce Kevlar and bone.

Vance stepped off the crane girder.

He didn't make a sound as he dropped. Gravity did the work, and his boots slammed directly into the shoulders of the trailing sweep. The man's spine compressed with a sickening crack before he could even register the weight. As they hit the wet concrete together, Vance used the man's falling momentum to roll forward, instantly absorbing the impact into his knees and hips.

The remaining five sweeps swung their weapons around, the tactical lights on their carbines strobing wildly through the rain.

"Behind us!"

Vance was already inside their guard.

Against multiple armed opponents, distance is death. He closed the gap to the second man before the carbine barrel could clear his torso. With a lightning-fast left palm strike, Vance jammed the weapon's muzzle upward, redirecting the firing line. Bang! A single 5.56mm round tore into the sky.

In the same microsecond, Vance's right arm snapped forward. The steel spike on his forearm caught the man cleanly under the jawline, driving upward into the base of the skull. A swift, brutal twist, and Vance ripped the weapon from the dying man's grip, transitioning the carbine into a blunt striking tool.

He didn't fire it. The flash would blind his night-adjusted vision.

Instead, he swung the heavy buttstock of the carbine in a short, horizontal arc, shattering the third sweep's collarbone. The man dropped to one knee, gasping, but Vance was already moving past him, utilizing the falling body as a physical shield against the fourth and fifth men who had finally opened fire.

Spit. Spit. Spit.

Suppressed rounds chewed into the back of the third sweep's tactical vest. Vance felt the impacts vibrating through the meat and bone he held in front of him.

Calculating the distance—four meters—Vance shoved the human shield forward into the shooters, tripping their advance. He dropped low, his hands hitting the wet asphalt, and executed a sweeping low kick that caught the fourth man behind the ankle. The man went down hard, his head bouncing off the concrete with a dull thud.

The fifth man, the squad leader, backed away, trying to create a clearing to aim. His hands were steady, his training kicking in. He leveled his sidearm right at Vance's chest.

Vance didn't dodge. He advanced.

One explosive step forward. He slapped the flat of his left hand against the top of the leader's pistol, forcing the barrel down while his right fist—knuckles hardened by years of iron-post striking—drove straight into the center of the man's throat.

The squad leader's breath choked out in a dry rattle. The pistol dropped from his limp fingers.

Vance caught the gun before it hit the floor, spun it flawlessly in his palm, and delivered two precise, unblinking shots into the remaining threats on the ground.

Thud. Thud.

Silence returned to the shipyard, save for the steady hum of the downpour and the distant groaning of metal cranes. Vance stood amidst the wreckage of the squad, his chest rising and falling in perfect, unbroken rhythm. He dropped the empty magazine from the captured pistol, checked the chamber of his next weapon, and looked toward the glowing skyline of the city.

The betrayal was deep. The hunt had just begun.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***