Chapter 7
The kitchen erupted into a flurry of brutal, kinetic violence. Marcus didn't wait for the tactical operative to acquire his target; he crossed the distance in a fraction of a second, slamming his left forearm directly into the barrel of the suppressed submachine gun, forcing it upward just as a muffled thud-thud-thud spat three rounds into the acoustic ceiling tiles.
Plaster dust rained down like winter snow as the two men collided with the stainless-steel prep counter. Metal pots and pans clattered to the floor in a cacophony of noise. The operative was younger, leaner, and wrapped in reinforced Kevlar, but Marcus possessed a savage, street-hardened strength driven by absolute fury.
With a sharp grunt, Marcus drove his elbow backward into the operative’s ribs, hearing the satisfying crunch of cartilage giving way beneath the tactical vest. The man gasped, his grip on the weapon loosening. Seizing the opening, Marcus twisted the submachine gun out of the operative's hands, slamming the heavy metal receiver across the side of the man’s masked helmet. The operative collapsed to the linoleum, motionless.
Marcus stood over him, chest heaving, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. The suit jacket he had given Clara was gone, leaving him in a sweat-stained white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his own bruised, heavily tattooed forearms.
Before he could catch his breath, a heavy boot struck the remaining splintered wood of the kitchen door. Two more operatives poured into the room, spreading out with lethal coordination. They weren't low-level thugs; they moved like black-ops mercenaries, sweeping sectors and checking corners with ruthless precision.
Marcus ducked behind the heavy industrial dish-washing station just as a stream of suppressed gunfire chewed through the stainless steel, sending sparks and hot lead flying in all directions. Glassware shattered on the shelves above him. He fired twice through the lower cabinet doors, hearing a sharp cry of pain as one of the rounds found its mark in an exposed ankle.
“Clear the perimeter! Find the lawyer!” a gruff, modulated voice barked from the doorway.
Marcus gritted his teeth, sliding along the back wall toward the corridor leading to the walk-in freezers. He knew where Julian had run, and he knew that if these men caught the cowardly prosecutor, they would tear the building apart to find out where Clara was hiding. He couldn't let them reach the back hallway.
He popped up from behind the ice machine, raising his pistol and firing a controlled double-tap that forced the leading operative to dive behind a flour cart. But it was a distraction. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw the third operative—the one who had hung back in the shadows—sidestepping the kitchen fight entirely, slipping past the broken doors directly into the dark hallway where Julian and Clara were trapped.
“Damn it,” Marcus hissed.
He abandoned his cover, charging down the narrow corridor after the operative, ignoring the stinging pain in his ribs. The hallway was pitch black, lit only by the faint red glow of an emergency exit sign that flickered overhead.
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As Marcus rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks. Julian was pinned against the wall outside the walk-in freezer door, his face twisted in sheer terror, while the operative held a heavy combat knife pressed flat against the lawyer’s throat.
And directly beside them, standing in the open doorway of the walk-in freezer with the heavy steel door unlocked, was Clara.
