Chapter 107 - Bloodline Sovereign
Marcus instantly swung his rifle upward, unleashing a sustained burst of armor-piercing rounds. The heavy fire slammed into the lead operative’s chest, driving him backward, but the black liquid armor absorbed the kinetic shock with terrifying efficiency. The operative rolled with the impact, sprang back to his feet, and fired a sidearm burst that caught Marcus squarely in the shoulder, spinning the veteran security chief to the floor.
"Marcus!" Emma cried out.
"Keep moving!" Vincent snarled. Stepping over Marcus’s fallen body, Vincent raised his customized .45 and fired three precise shots directly into the visor seam of the second operative. The specialized rounds penetrated the optics, blowing out the back of the helmet in a shower of sparks and dark fluid.
The third operative closed the distance with terrifying speed, wielding an electrified combat blade. Vincent parried the strike with the steel frame of his empty pistol, the electrical discharge singing the skin of his forearm. The operative pivoted, sweeping Vincent’s injured ribs with a brutal kick that sent Chicago’s most powerful billionaire crashing into the shattered glass of the display cases.
Emma saw Vincent hit the ground, clutching his bleeding side, his breath knocked completely out of him.
The first operative—the leader—stepped over the dead bodies, stepping toward Emma. He didn't raise his rifle. Instead, he reached up, unlocked his obsidian helmet, and removed it.
Emma froze.
Beneath the helmet was the face of a man no older than thirty-five, with high aristocratic cheekbones, cold ice-blue eyes, and a cruel, symmetrical scar slicing down his jawline. But what froze Emma’s blood was not his scars.
Pinned to the lapel of his tactical armor was a silver brooch: an exact match to the seal in her mother's journal. A crowned falcon surrounded by a golden ouroboros.
"You look so much like your mother, Emma," the man said in an accent smooth, aristocratic, and chillingly devoid of emotion. "She was a fool to run. She thought hiding you among the common filth of this rotting city would keep you safe from your inheritance."
May you like
"Who are you?" Emma demanded, backing away until her shoulders pressed against the reinforced wall.
"My name is Julian Ward," the man said with a slight, mocking bow. "Your cousin. And the rightful inheritor of the Sovereign Council. Give me the drive, Emma. It doesn't belong to the peasants. And it certainly doesn't belong to the dying pet of the Moretti family."
