Chapter 18 - The Syndicate’s Table
The doors flew open to reveal a spacious, high-ceilinged study dominated by a massive floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the snow-covered valley thousands of feet below.
Marcus Vance stood by the mahogany desk, a crystal glass of scotch halfway to his mouth. Across from him sat an aging, silver-haired man in an expensive Savile Row suit—General Alexei Petrov, a notorious arms broker tied to international intelligence syndicates—alongside a burly bodyguard who instantly reached for a shoulder holster.
“Drop it!” Reed roared, his carbine leveled squarely at the bodyguard’s chest.
The bodyguard froze, his hand hovering inches from his weapon as he looked into the cold, unwavering eyes of a veteran sniper who had never missed a shot in close quarters.
Marcus didn’t panic. A slow, mocking smile crept across his face as he lowered his glass to the desk, setting it down with a delicate clink.
“Well, well, Captain Avery,” Marcus said smoothly, spreading his arms as if welcoming old friends to a reunion. “I must admit, I expected you to go down with the Orion’s Star. Persistence has always been your primary flaw—you simply don’t know when a battle is lost.”
“The battle isn’t lost, Marcus; it’s just changing venues,” Avery said, stepping into the room, his Sig Sauer aimed directly at Vance’s chest. “Step away from the terminal. Hands on the desk where I can see them.”
General Petrov remained seated, his expression impassive, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass as if watching a mildly amusing theatrical play. “Ah, the wayward captain,” Petrov muttered in heavily accented English. “You are tilting at windmills, young man. The data is already in motion. You cannot put the genie back in the bottle.”
“I don’t need to put it back in the bottle,” Avery replied coldly. “I just need to cut off the hand holding the cork.”
“Captain, watch out!” Brock yelled from the doorway.
The bodyguard made a desperate, lightning-fast dive to the side, drawing a compact automatic pistol from his rig.
Before he could acquire a target, Reed’s carbine barked once. The suppressed round punched clean through the bodyguard’s shoulder, spinning him violently around and sending his weapon clattering across the hardwood floor into the corner of the room.
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Marcus seized the distraction. With a sudden, violent movement, he snatched the small, black cold-storage drive from the USB port of the satellite terminal and dove behind the heavy marble-topped desk.
“Reed, cover Petrov! Brock, watch the hallway!” Avery commanded, sprinting across the room and sliding behind a leather armchair as a fresh burst of gunfire erupted from the doorway—the second detail outside had heard the commotion and was rushing the study.
