Chapter 12
The metallic screech of boots descending the iron ladder echoed sharply off the damp brick walls of the utility junction. Marcus shoved Clara behind him instantly, sweeping his arm out to force Julian down flat against the slimy concrete ledge.
“Stay down,” Marcus hissed under his breath.
He clicked off the flashlight, plunging the junction into absolute, suffocating darkness. Only the faint, circular sliver of moonlight from the manhole overhead provided a dim, ghostly halo around the base of the ladder.
Marcus moved with silent, predatory grace, stepping up to the base of the iron rungs. He didn't have his firearm anymore—he had lost it during the kitchen skirmish—but he possessed leverage, darkness, and a lifetime of street-fighting experience.
The boots hit the bottom of the ladder with a wet slap. A tactical operative stepped off the rungs, raising a night-vision-equipped submachine gun, scanning the dark tunnel with practiced efficiency. He didn't see Marcus standing just inches to his left in the blind spot of the junction.
Marcus struck like a coiled spring. He wrapped a thick forearm around the operative’s throat, yanking him backward off balance while simultaneously driving his knee upward into the small of the man's back. The operative choked out a muffled gasp, dropping the weapon as it clattered loudly against the concrete.
Before the man could recover, Marcus slammed his head hard against the rusted iron ladder, neutralizing him instantly. The operative slumped into a heap at the base of the rungs.
Marcus didn't waste a second. He stripped the tactical vest off the unconscious man, grabbing a spare sidearm holstered at his hip and checking the magazine in the dim moonlight. He tossed a heavy tactical flashlight to Clara, who caught it deftly with her bruised hands.
“Are you hit?” Clara whispered, stepping out from the shadows, sweeping the flashlight beam across Marcus’s blood-streaked face.
“I’m fine,” Marcus lied smoothly, though his breathing was ragged. He looked up at the open manhole. “That wasn't a random patrol. They’re blanketing the entire fourth district. They knew we’d take the drainage network.”
Julian crawled out from the shadows, panting and covered in black slime, his eyes wild with terror. “The precinct! We have to get to the precinct! If we walk into the front lobby of the police station, they can’t touch us in broad daylight! I have colleagues there—judges, detectives, senior officers!”
Marcus laughed, a dark, humorless sound that echoed off the tunnel walls. “Colleagues like you, Julian? Men who take payoffs and look the other way while women are beaten in their apartments? You think the badge is going to save you down here when the entire department is on their payroll?”
Julian recoiled as if struck, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. “That’s... that’s impossible. The law—”
“The law doesn't exist in the fourth district anymore, Julian,” Marcus interrupted, turning his gaze back to the ladder. “Not after what your bosses bought off. But we still have one card left to play.”
Clara stepped forward, shining her light on Marcus’s face. “What card?”
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“The safe house,” Marcus said quietly. “Underneath the old rail yards. Where I kept the records before I opened the diner.”
Before either of them could respond, the sound of heavy sirens began to wail above them on the surface streets, growing rapidly louder as multiple patrol cars converged on their exact position.
