À sa place, une résolution inflexible, dure comme le diamant.
Chapter 135 – Through the Iron Catacombs
The relief flume was an oppressive tube of riveted iron and damp limestone, smelling of cold mud, sulfur, and ancient river water.
The sound of lake waves thudded through the curved ceiling overhead like the heartbeat of a monstrous beast.
Ice clung to the masonry, forming jagged stalactites that brushed against their tactical helmets as they moved at an urgent jog.
Marco took the vanguard, his weapon light cutting through the thick subterranean mist.
Vincent kept pace, ignoring the sharp pain in his injured thigh with sheer, terrifying discipline.
Emma covered their rear, her ears straining against the dripping moisture for any sign of following footsteps.
“One hundred meters to the base of the crib,” Marco whispered over the throat mic.
“I’m picking up seismic vibrations overhead.
They’ve already breached the exterior steel door of the crib’s deck.”
“Hold up,” Vincent commanded, raising a fist.
They froze in the damp darkness.
Ahead, a faint shaft of artificial yellow light cut through a drainage grating set into the tunnel ceiling.
Through the iron slats came the harsh, clipped shouts of mercenaries speaking German and Russian, followed by the metallic clang of heavy machinery being bolted into place.
“They’re setting up a directional drilling rig,” Marco hissed softly.
“They intend to tap into the main intake pipe before the automated shutoff valves can trip.”
“Marco, take the secondary utility hatch on the northern ring,” Vincent ordered in a low murmur.
“Suppress their heavy gunner.
Emma, you stay low on the maintenance catwalk and secure the valve controls.
I will handle the strike team leader.”
Emma looked up through the grate.
Shadows moved across the yellow beams of light—men with suppressed submachine guns and heavy thermal optics.
“Vincent, there are at least a dozen of them.”
Chapter 136 – The Battle on the Crib
The grate blew open with a deafening clang, crashing into the chest of a mercenary standing watch.
Before the man could scream, Vincent vaulted up through the opening, firing three controlled rounds into the sentry’s chest plates.
The chamber erupted into chaos.
The crib was a cavernous circular stone tower, dominated by a massive central well of deep, black water that led down into the subterranean intakes.
Overhead, iron walkways circled the chamber up to the domed ceiling.
Muzzle flashes flared in the gloom.
Marco emerged from the side hatch, opening up with controlled bursts that shattered the drilling rig’s hydraulic lines, spraying pressurized fluid into the air and driving two contractors back against the stone walls.
Emma scrambled out onto the narrow iron catwalk, dropping low as bullets chewed through the wooden handrails just inches above her head.
Wood splinters flew across her cheek, stinging her skin, but she kept her weapon level.
A contractor was sprinting toward the primary intake lever, holding a pressurized steel canister marked with hazardous waste insignias.
If he pulled that lever, the suction from Lake Michigan would drag the canister straight into the municipal feeder tubes.
Emma didn’t hesitate.
She steadied her breathing, centered the iron sights of her pistol, and squeezed the trigger.
The shot cracked through the stone chamber.
The bullet struck the contractor’s shoulder, spinning him around.
He stumbled, losing his grip on the canister.
The heavy steel cylinder rolled across the slick concrete floor, wobbling dangerously close to the edge of the open water well.
“Vincent!
The canister!”
Emma screamed.
Chapter 137 – Blood on the Cold Stone
The fight between Vincent and the commander was brutal, feral, and silent.
The two men rolled across the wet stones, trading devastating strikes.
Vincent drove an elbow into the mercenary’s jaw, but the operative countered with a combat knife, slicing through Vincent’s tactical vest and opening a shallow gash across his ribs.
Vincent hissed in pain, grabbing the man’s knife wrist with his left hand while using his right to drive the heel of his palm directly into the commander’s throat.
The man choked, his grip loosening, but his sheer mass allowed him to pin Vincent against the lip of the deep well.
Below them, forty feet down, the dark, turbulent waters of the lake churned like an open grave.
“Moretti…” the commander wheezed, his eyes bloodshot, fighting for breath.
“The fleet… won’t stop…
Chicago burns tonight…”
“Not on my watch,” Vincent snarled.
With a final, explosive surge of strength, Vincent hooked his leg behind the operative’s knee and threw his weight backward, rolling the man over his shoulder.
The commander lost his footing on the slick algae of the rim and tumbled headlong into the black chasm below, hitting the icy water with a distant, hollow splash.
