Chapter 137 - Blood on the Cold Stone
The fight between Vincent and the commander was brutal, feral, and silent. The two men rolled across the wet stones, trading devastating strikes. Vincent drove an elbow into the mercenary’s jaw, but the operative countered with a combat knife, slicing through Vincent's tactical vest and opening a shallow gash across his ribs.
Vincent hissed in pain, grabbing the man's knife wrist with his left hand while using his right to drive the heel of his palm directly into the commander's throat. The man choked, his grip loosening, but his sheer mass allowed him to pin Vincent against the lip of the deep well. Below them, forty feet down, the dark, turbulent waters of the lake churned like an open grave.
"Moretti..." the commander wheezed, his eyes bloodshot, fighting for breath. "The fleet... won't stop... Chicago burns tonight..."
"Not on my watch," Vincent snarled.
With a final, explosive surge of strength, Vincent hooked his leg behind the operative’s knee and threw his weight backward, rolling the man over his shoulder. The commander lost his footing on the slick algae of the rim and tumbled headlong into the black chasm below, hitting the icy water with a distant, hollow splash.
Silence fell across the crib chamber, broken only by the hum of the broken drilling rig and Marco’s heavy breathing as he checked the bodies of the fallen mercenaries.
Vincent lay on his back for a moment, chest heaving, blood dripping from his side onto the cold stones. Emma hurried across the catwalk, sliding to her knees beside him. She reached into her first-aid pouch, pressing a gauze pack firmly against the wound on his ribs.
"You're bleeding again," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to keep it firm.
Vincent looked up at her, a faint, iron smile touching his lips. "It's just skin, Emma. Did you secure the canister?"
Emma glanced over her shoulder. The toxic canister sat five inches from the well edge, stationary against an iron bolt. "It's safe. The water supply is untouched."
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"Good," Vincent murmured, leaning heavily on her arm as she helped him stand. "Because the real fight hasn't even begun."
Outside the thick brick windows of the crib, the roar of marine gas turbines grew louder. Julian Sterling’s three corvettes were closing in, encircling the intake tower like a pack of wolves cornering a wounded bear.
