Chapter 6 - The Ghost from the Grave
Marcus’s eyes darted frantically around the dark corridor, calculating his odds. He was a survivor—a rat who knew when a sinking ship was going down. Slowly, deliberately, he let his submachine gun slip from his hands, letting it clatter against the concrete floor.
“Smart choice,” I muttered, stepping closer to secure him against the wall.
Before I could zip-tie his wrists, a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted from the end of the corridor.
It wasn't a flashlight. It was a stun grenade rolling across the floor right toward my feet.
Flash-bang!
The deafening concussion blast tore through the hallway, blinding me with a searing wash of white light and ringing my ears with a high-pitched, agonizing whine. I stumbled backward, my vision blurring into a chaotic swirl of shapes and shadows as my equilibrium failed me.
“Got you, you old bastard!” Marcus snarled, lunging forward from the floor and driving a heavy tactical boot straight into my ribs.
The impact knocked the wind out of me, sending me crashing against the control room doorframe. I raised my weapon, but my vision was swimming, the edges of my sight darkening into a heavy grey fog.
Marcus loomed over me, a sadistic grin twisting his scarred face as he pulled a heavy combat knife from his chest rig. “End of the line, Victor. The syndicate sends its regards.”
He raised the blade high, preparing to bring it down in a fatal arc.
I braced myself, my fingers tightening around the grip of my pistol, ready to take him down with me in a final, desperate shot—
Bang.
The shot didn't come from my gun.
Marcus froze mid-swing. His eyes widened in absolute shock as a small, clean hole appeared right through the center of his forehead. The knife slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly against the floor, and he collapsed sideways like a felled tree, revealing a figure standing at the far end of the corridor.
Through the ringing in my ears and the fading haze of the flash-bang, I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision.
A tall figure stepped out of the smoke. Heavy winter coat. Tactical vest. A weathered face framed by familiar, sharp features and a dark beard streaked heavily with silver.
He lowered a smoking sniper rifle, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that defied belief.
It couldn't be.
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I had stood beside his grave six years ago. I had seen the name carved into the granite.
“You’re late, Victor,” Julian Vance said, his voice raspy and scarred by smoke, but undeniably, impossibly real. “I told you years ago to watch your blind spots.”
