Twenty High Table enforcers stood on the stairwell between the third and fourth floors.
Glancing back at their comrades pinned down by the MG3 heavy machine gun fire, they weighed their options for only a moment before deciding to press forward.
Their mission was clear: kill Alex Cross and Caine.
Only by going up could they fulfill their orders.
But the decision carried a chill — one that sealed the fate of the men left behind.
Between the second and third floors, fifteen enforcers clung to the walls, their faces pale as death. They had no choice but to wait, hoping against hope that the next wave of reinforcements would arrive before they were wiped out.
The twenty who pushed on reached the fourth floor.
Shaken by the sudden carnage below, they moved with extreme caution.
The lead enforcer clenched his jaw, stepped forward, and with a heavy kick smashed open the stairwell door.
The corridor beyond was long, narrow, and empty.
Dim.
Silent.
Oppressive.
At the far end, in the doorway of a room, a shadowy figure flickered.
Before the man could react, a sharp pain lanced through his forehead — and his world went dark.
He collapsed without a sound.
The nineteen survivors stiffened in alarm. No gunshot. No muzzle flash.
Just sudden death.
Another stepped forward, raised his rifle, and swept the corridor with his sights.
At the very end, he caught a glimpse of a man in a suit — plain face, expressionless.
That was all he saw before he too fell lifeless, eyes glazed.
It was Alexander Duggan.
Calm, composed, standing at the corridor's far end with a Mk14 Mod 0 Enhanced Battle Rifle, fitted with a 4x optic.
Twenty rounds in the mag — not more, not less.
Duggan, returned to the role of sniper, was a predator lurking in the dark.
Cold. Precise. Merciless.
Two shots. Two kills.
He didn't leave. He waited, patient, for the next target.
Meanwhile, on the fifth floor, the stairwell door opened quietly.
Two killers from the Lighthouse organization crouched at the landing, pulling grenades from their belts.
Pins yanked free.
Arcs thrown.
The grenades bounced off walls, clattering down toward the fourth floor.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
The rolling sound drew the enforcers' eyes down.
When they saw the unpinned grenades at their feet, their faces drained of color.
BOOM!
BOOM!
The twin explosions shredded four of them instantly.
The blast also tore through the weakened staircase, collapsing half of it and sending bodies — four corpses and two unlucky survivors — crashing back down onto the third floor.
The twelve survivors bolted into the corridor in desperation.
And in that instant, Duggan fired again.
CRACK!
Through the 4x scope, a 7.62mm round streaked like an arrow, punching clean through another enforcer's eye socket and into his brain.
Duggan lowered his rifle only after the shot. Silent, he stepped back into the shadows and slipped away.
Back on the third floor, the fifteen abandoned enforcers found themselves cursed.
Not long after their comrades moved on, the explosions above sent half a staircase — and six broken bodies — crashing down onto their ranks, killing three more outright.
Worse, two panicked men stumbled into the stairwell.
The MG3 thundered again.
BRRRRT!
They were torn apart in seconds, their bodies hurled down to the lobby like rag dolls.
"Shit! This fucking mission!"
One enforcer snapped, rage boiling over.
He shoved past his comrades, raised his gun, and charged into the stairwell, directly into the MG3's line of fire.
Brave. But pointless.
The torrent of 7.62 rounds shredded him where he stood.
His futile sacrifice, though, sparked something in the remaining nine.
Better to die fighting than to rot in fear.
With grim determination, they raised their rifles and charged the stairwell as one.
Gunfire roared.
The MG3 spat fire.
Bullets clashed against shields, helmets, and flesh.
For a brief moment, the enforcers' numbers let them push back against the slaughter.
But seconds later, silence returned.
Nine broken corpses littered the stairwell, their last act nothing but a futile gesture.
At the top floor, Alex Cross stood behind Ramsey, swirling a glass of whiskey as he watched the surveillance feed.
The charge of the nine enforcers played out in brutal detail before his eyes.
For a moment, he regarded their defiance.
Then he sipped his drink.
"Fools," he murmured.
No sympathy. No regret.
In this world, there were only winners and losers.
And these men — tools of the High Table — were nothing more than executioners of the wrong cause.
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