Chapter 8
The red light on Marcus’s collar flashed with blinding intensity, casting a strobe-like effect across the rusted steel of the dough mixer behind him. The three enforcers advanced slowly, their assault rifles leveled dead-center at Marcus’s chest. Their mirrored biometric visors reflected the gloomy interior of the bakery, turning Marcus and Toby into distorted, fish-eye reflections of hunted prey.
"Drop your weapon, Vance," the lead enforcer commanded, his rifle barrel twitching slightly. "You're fighting a ghost. The department owns every square foot of this hemisphere. You can't outrun a network that lives inside your own nervous system."
Marcus kept one hand on Toby, who was clinging desperately to his uniform jacket, whimpering softly in the dim light. Marcus’s right hand drifted down toward his holster, but he knew drawing his pistol against three heavily armored professionals with real-time tactical targeting software was suicide.
"I'm not running from the network," Marcus said loudly, his voice echoing off the high vaulted ceiling. "I'm running from men who forgot what it's like to be human."
The enforcer laughed—a harsh, digital sound amplified by his helmet's external speakers. "Humanity is an inefficiency, Vance. It’s an error in the code that we’ve spent fifty years correcting. Now, step away from the child."
Marcus slowly unbuckled his tactical vest, letting the heavy nylon and armor plating drop to the dusty floor with a dull thud. The compliance collar remained locked around his neck, its beeping now reaching a pitch that set Marcus’s teeth on edge.
"Take the vest. Leave the kid alone," Marcus said, keeping his hands raised palms-up.
"The child is the anomaly," the enforcer replied, taking another step forward. He gestured to the enforcer on his right. "Secure the asset."
The second enforcer lowered his rifle and strode toward Toby, his heavy boots crunching loudly on the flour-covered floorboards. Toby shrieked, burying his face deeper into Marcus’s shoulder, his little hands gripping the fabric so hard his knuckles turned white.
"No! Stay away from Toby!" Marcus shouted, a sudden surge of adrenaline overriding his fear.
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As the enforcer reached out a gloved hand to grab the toddler’s arm, Marcus didn't punch or reach for a weapon. Instead, he slammed his forehead directly into the compliance collar's detonator housing against the metal chassis of the nearest dough mixer.
A sharp, high-voltage spark shot from the collar, grounding itself directly into the massive steel appliance. The entire bakery's old, unmapped electrical wiring—long thought dead—suddenly surged with a blinding arc of blue electricity that leapt from mixer to mixer across the room.
