Chapter 5 - The Reunion of Wolves
The grand foyer looked like a war zone. Shrapnel scarred the imported Persian rugs, crystal chandeliers hung dangling from shattered wiring, and the bitter, sulfurous reek of high explosives hung thick in the air.
Standing in the center of the wreckage, calmly adjusting the cuffs of an expensive charcoal suit, was Marcus Cole. He looked older than when I had fired him—thinner, his eyes feverish and hollow, burning with the manic triumph of a man who believed he had finally outsmarted God.
Flanking him were four heavy-set mercenaries with assault rifles leveled at the grand staircase.
"Well, well, well," Marcus called out, his voice echoing off the scorched marble walls. He didn't see me yet; he was staring up at the empty wheelchair resting near the top of the stairs, where Vance had staged it as a decoy. "Look at the mighty Harbor King. Reduced to a pile of expensive metal and broken dreams. Too bad you won't live long enough to enjoy your retirement, Caleb."
I stepped out from the shadows of the corridor leading from the West Wing, my boots clicking rhythmically against the ruined floor.
"You always did have a flair for cheap theater, Marcus," I said.
Marcus froze. He spun around, his jaw dropping so fast I thought it might dislocate. He stared at me—not sitting in a chair, not crawling on the floor, but standing upright, staring down the barrel of my gun directly into his eyes.
"That's... that's impossible," Marcus stammered, taking an involuntary half-step backward, his face draining of all color. "The neurotoxin... the spinal scan... Dr. Aris said you wouldn't regain motor function for at least five years, if ever!"
"Turns out your brother Thomas is a brilliant scientist, but a terrible judge of character," I replied, closing the distance between us with slow, deliberate strides. My legs burned with white-hot agony, but I didn't let my expression waver for a single microsecond. "He left a master key walking around in his own niece's bloodstream. And I just used it to unlock the door."
Marcus’s panic curdled into desperate fury. He lunged to the side, grabbing the nearest mercenary by the tactical vest and shoving him forward. "Kill him! Shoot him, you idiots! Cut him down!"
The mercenary raised his rifle, but he was too slow.
Before his finger could even brush the trigger, my Sig Sauer barked once. The bullet caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him to his knees.
The remaining three mercenaries opened fire, riddling the marble pillars beside me with a hailstorm of 9mm rounds that sent lethal white shards flying in every direction. I threw myself behind a thick stone column, returning fire with cold, calculated precision.
Crack. Crack.
Two more mercenaries dropped, clutching their legs and screaming in agony as blood pooled across the polished floor.
The last mercenary dropped his weapon, threw his hands in the air, and bolted for the shattered front doors, disappearing into the swirling winter smoke outside.
Silence slammed back down over the foyer, broken only by the crackle of a small electrical fire near the ruined staircase and Marcus Cole’s ragged, terrified breathing.
Marcus backed up until his spine hit the stone base of a shattered marble pillar. He was shaking violently, his hands raised in empty surrender, his eyes darting frantically toward the exits.
I walked slowly out from behind the column, the heavy black barrel of my pistol pointed squarely at the center of his chest.
"Please, Caleb," Marcus whispered, dropping to his knees, his voice cracking with pathetic whines. "Please don't. I was just following orders! Thomas told me—Thomas said if we broke your spine, we could control your entire shipping empire from the shadows! It wasn't personal!"
I stood over him, my shadow falling completely across his trembling frame. For eight years, I had dreamed of this moment—dreamed of tearing apart the men who had stolen my legs, my wife, and my life.
"It’s always personal, Marcus," I said softly.
I raised the butt of my pistol—
And brought it crashing down hard across the side of his skull with every ounce of my remaining strength.
Marcus crumpled instantly into a boneless heap on the marble floor, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
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I stood there in the smoking wreckage of my foyer, breathing heavily, my legs trembling violently. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and the crushing wave of physical exhaustion threatened to pull me down into the earth. But I didn't fall.
I was standing. And I was going to keep standing.
