Chapter 5 - The Weight of Steel
I moved silently through the dark mill, pulling a heavy steel iron bar from a disused grain grinder.
"Sophia," I whispered, pointing to a small hollow beneath a cast-iron processing wheel in the corner. "Hide in there. Do not make a sound until I call your name."
She crawled into the tight space without a word, pulling a piece of dusty burlap over her head.
Outside, the heavy wood of the door groaned as two mercenaries kicked against the frame.
CRACK.
The wooden security beam splintered. The oak door swung inward, revealing two men holding high-powered flashlights and handguns. They stepped cautiously onto the dusty floorboards, their boots crunching on dry grain.
"Check the upper catwalks," the lead mercenary ordered his partner. "He couldn't have gone far."
The second man stepped directly beneath a massive iron hopper suspended thirty feet above the floor by a rusted winch cable.
I didn't hesitate.
I swung the heavy iron bar with all my strength against the rusted winch ratchet on the wall beside me.
CLANG!
The iron teeth snapped.
The three-ton steel hopper collapsed straight down like a falling anvil, smashing through the floorboards with a deafening roar of iron, dust, and splintered timber. The second mercenary was buried beneath a mountain of rusted metal and floor debris before he could even raise his weapon.
The lead mercenary spun around in sheer shock, his flashlight beam swinging wildly through the thick cloud of yellow grain dust.
"What the—"
I stepped out from behind a wooden pillar, swinging the iron bar with lethal precision across his forearm. His handgun clattered onto the floorboards. Before he could recover, I drove my shoulder into his chest, slamming him back against the stone wall, and drove my fist into his jaw until he slumped unconscious into the dust.
I stood panting in the settled dust, my hands trembling around the iron bar.
I picked up the mercenary’s dropped flashlight and his suppressed 9mm pistol.
"Sophia," I called out softly. "It’s clear."
She crawled out from beneath the cast-iron wheel, brushing flour dust from her hair. She looked at the unconscious men, then looked up at me with her wide, observational eyes.
"You're better at this than papa’s television shows," she said quietly.
A beam of headlights flashed through the shattered front door. A green vintage Land Rover pulled up to the entrance, its engine idling loudly.
May you like
The driver’s door opened, and Bram stepped out—a giant of a man with gray hair, a thick beard, and an iron grip that had held against a hundred storms.
"Julian," Bram said, looking at the wreckage inside the mill. "You always were an overachiever."
