Chapter 6 - The Barrel of a Gun
The cold steel barrel of the suppressed submachine gun hovered inches from Stallone’s chest. The operative behind the mask breathed steadily through a tactical respirator, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. There was no hesitation in his posture—this was a professional executioner who had ended lives without a second thought.
Stallone didn't blink. His massive frame blocked the doorway completely, shielding Jonathan, who cowered behind him on the floor, clutching his head in utter panic.
"Drop the book, old man," the operative commanded through a voice modulator that distorted his speech into a mechanical, metallic rasp. "And step away from the wall. Last warning."
Stallone slowly raised his empty hands, keeping them visible at shoulder height. "You work for Arthur Vance, don't you? Or is it the syndicate board downtown pulling your strings now?"
"We work for whoever pays to keep the past buried," the operative replied sharply. "Move!"
As the gunman shifted his weight slightly to adjust his grip on the weapon, Stallone dropped his left shoulder and lunged forward with explosive, deceptive speed. Instead of trying to disarm the gunman directly, Stallone slammed his heavy forearm upward, striking the barrel of the submachine gun and forcing it toward the ceiling just as the trigger was pulled.
Rat-tat-tat!
A burst of suppressed gunfire chewed through the acoustic ceiling tiles, raining down a blizzard of white drywall dust and fiberglass insulation over the hallway.
Before the operative could recover his aim, Stallone closed the distance, wrapping his powerful arms around the man's torso and driving him backward with incredible force. They slammed into the reinforced glass partition of the nurses' station, shattering the safety glass into a thousand glittering diamonds that rained down across the desk.
The operative thrashed violently, trying to draw a combat knife from his tactical vest, but Stallone pinned his right arm with an iron grip, applying crushing pressure to the joint until a sharp pop echoed through the corridor.
The gunman let out a muffled groan of agony, his weapon slipping from his limp fingers and clattering across the shattered glass.
"Clear!" a deep voice barked from the stairwell behind them.
Jonathan, peeking out from the doorway, saw two more tactical operatives rounding the far corner of the hallway, their weapons raised and ready to fire.
"Stallone! More of them are coming up the back stairs!" Jonathan shrieked, scrambling backward on his hands and knees.
Stallone released the subdued operative, who crumpled unconscious onto the glass-strewn floor, and turned back toward the room with a cold, determined glint in his eye. He reached into his coat and pulled out the charred ledger, tossing it directly onto Jonathan’s lap.
"Get up," Stallone ordered, grabbing Jonathan by the collar of his ruined suit and lifting him effortlessly to his feet. "We're taking the service elevator to the sub-basement."
Jonathan clutched the ledger to his chest like a holy relic, his face pale with sweat as he stared down the hallway at the approaching gunmen. "The sub-basement? That leads directly to the incinerator tunnels! They’ll trap us down there!"
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"Only if we let them," Stallone said, kicking open the service door at the end of the hall. "Move!"
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