The air was damp, heavy with mildew and oil.
Stone pressed his back to the cold concrete wall, listening. Down the narrow hall, behind the steel door, came the unmistakable sounds of men preparing for war—the slam of magazines shoved into rifles, clips ramming home, the metallic clang of handguns being loaded in quick succession.
He knew those sounds. He’d lived them as an assassin, drilled them as Special Forces. They weren’t background noise—they were countdowns.
Real’s hand settled briefly on his shoulder, grounding him. Rip loomed at his other side, steady and ready, his gaze sharp even in the half-light.
Stone lifted two fingers, then pointed at the door. Breach.
Amazed that the doorknob turned beneath his hand and the door swung wide, Rip moved inside first, with Real following.
Gunfire exploded instantly. Muzzle flashes hit the walls in violent bursts. They surged in farther, rounds sparking off metal, concrete chips stinging exposed skin.
Shadows scattered, men shouting in chaos as they opened fire, diving for cover.
“Put your guns down!” Real’s voice boomed through the room.
Real shot the overheads out, plunging the underground room into darkness.
Stone didn’t flinch.
He welcomed it.
The dark had always been his ally. Where others stumbled, he thrived. He shifted low, sighting off the faint glow of muzzle flashes, squeezing off two precise rounds. One man dropped with a strangled cry. Another weapon clattered to the floor.
Real’s weapon snicked with suppressed rounds on his left, every shot deliberate, along with the flash of Real’s knife, clean, deadly. Rip moved beside them, fluid and silent, a predator with knives in each hand, cutting through confusion before it could organize.
But the noise didn’t stop.
Stone’s eyes adjusted, reading shadows in layers. That was when he caught it—the faint glow spilling from a far doorway.
Reinforcements.
Men surged in through the new entrance, heavily armed, boots thundering on the floor. Twice as many as before. Maybe more.
“Damn it,” Rip muttered, voice like gravel.
“Hold the line,” Stone commanded as they slid behind an overturned desk, reloading fast.
The firefight roared louder, rounds peppering the walls, ricochets screaming. Genesis might’ve been outnumbered, but numbers never mattered in the dark. This was where they lived.
Stone leaned out, aimed, and dropped another target clean through the chest. The man dropped in the faint glow, his weapon skittering across the floor.
But the surge from that far door didn’t stop. More boots. More rifles. More of Micky’s men poured into the underground bunker like a tide trying to drown them.
Stone’s gut tightened. Something about this wasn’t right.
The acrid bite of gunpowder hung thick, burning his nose, clawing down his throat.
Stone pushed forward, cutting low across the room, weapon firing. Another hostile dropped. He pivoted, sighted, and fired again—a clean shot to the throat.
But the doorway at the far end kept spitting men. Shadows spilling from light. One after another. Too many. Too many for one compound, for one man. Someone was feeding Mickey more than muscle.
“Send backup!” Real growled, pressing the mic at his ear.
“Copy! We’ll be there as fast as we can,” Viper’s voice, sure and almost comforting, came through the comms.
“Real, cover left!” Stone barked, sliding behind an overturned table as a hail of rounds shredded the wall.
