Gunfire cracked through the night like shattering glass.
Caleb Voss sprinted toward the far end of the alley, boots splashing through cold rainwater as bullets sparked off the brick walls beside him. The Syndicate's kill squad closed in from both sides, sealing off exits with military precision. Their silhouettes appeared and vanished behind neon reflections, moving like predators through a steel-and-concrete maze.
Caleb ducked behind a dumpster as rounds tore into the metal with deafening clangs.
Pinned.
Outgunned.
Burned.
He breathed slowly, forcing his pulse into steadier rhythm. Panic was for untrained men. Caleb had lived through ambushes on four continents, had slipped out of traps designed to erase entire units. But this—this had the unmistakable scent of betrayal.
He risked a glance.
Three Syndicate soldiers advanced from the north end of the alley. Another four boxed in the south. One climbed onto a fire escape, angling for a shot from above.
Caleb cursed under his breath.
His pistol had nine rounds left.
His knife, one smoke strip, and adrenaline were all he had.
"Come on, you bastard…" he muttered, steadying himself.
The soldier on the fire escape raised his rifle.
Caleb moved first.
He rolled from behind the dumpster just as the rifle spat fire. The shot missed his head by inches, blowing apart a neon sign behind him. Caleb snapped his pistol upward and fired twice.
The man on the fire escape tumbled to the street below.
The three soldiers on the left opened fire. Caleb dove behind a rusted sedan, glass exploding around him. He crawled low, emerging on the other side just long enough to fire again—one bullet catching a Syndicate soldier in the shoulder, spinning him to the wall.
The remaining two hesitated.
Caleb did not.
He sprinted forward, weaving through the hail of gunfire. His feet splashed through puddles, his breath sharp and controlled. He slid behind a concrete pillar, tossed the smoke strip at the soldiers' feet, and immediately the alley filled with choking gray fog.
Shouts.
Coughing.
Confusion.
Caleb pushed through the smoke like a phantom.
A sharp blow to the jaw.
A knee to the ribs.
A clean, silent takedown.
Two men dropped before they realized he was there.
But the south squad had adapted. Their leader barked orders.
"Fan out! Laser optics, now!"
Bright red dots pierced the fog.
Caleb grit his teeth.
He kicked open a basement door to his right and disappeared inside as a barrage of gunfire shredded the walls behind him.
The door slammed shut.
The basement was dark, humid, and smelled of mold and oil. Pipes clung to the ceiling like skeletal limbs. The only light came from a faint, flickering bulb deeper inside.
Caleb stayed still, listening.
The Syndicate soldiers were regrouping above him. He had seconds—maybe less—before they breached the basement.
He scanned the space.
Broken crates.
A toppled workbench.
Electrical conduits.
An old fuse box.
He might have an idea.
Caleb crossed the room and yanked open the fuse box panel. Wires dangled loosely. Perfect.
He stripped two wires with his knife, twisted them together, and held them near a metal pipe.
"Come on…" he muttered.
The solder sparked.
The entire basement hummed.
A loud electrical crack echoed overhead as the building's old wiring overloaded. The lights above the alley flickered violently, then exploded in showers of sparks.
Syndicate soldiers shouted in confusion.
Caleb didn't wait.
He slipped through a narrow maintenance corridor leading deeper underground. Pipes hissed with steam as he moved through the cramped passage. He emerged in a boiler room, then climbed a metal ladder leading to another exit hatch.
He pushed it open.
He emerged inside a small back-lot behind a shuttered mechanic shop, breathing the wet night air again.
The kill squad hadn't reached this area yet.
He took a moment, leaning against a wall, letting rain cool the sweat on his face. His ribs ached from the earlier impact. His shoulder throbbed from rolling across jagged concrete. But he was alive.
For now.
A quiet buzzing broke the silence.
Caleb reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small encrypted locator—his emergency tether. The screen glowed with a single blinking dot.
Mira Lockhart — 3.1 km east.
She was moving.
Good.
Bad.
He couldn't decide.
Mira was unpredictable—brilliant, dangerous, and always aware of more than she ever admitted. She used to work with SPECTER, until she didn't. Now she traded intelligence like currency, slipping between syndicates, governments, and black markets with ease.
If anyone knew why Caleb was burned—or who orchestrated it—it was her.
But she wouldn't help without leverage.
Caleb had none.
Unless surviving counts as leverage, he thought grimly.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
Caleb stepped into the street, keeping his pace swift but measured. He moved through narrow alleys, crossed abandoned intersections, sticking to shadows where possible. The city's red-light district pulsed in the distance—music thumping, neon shimmering through rain like broken glass.
A lone figure appeared at the far edge of the street.
Tall. Hood up. Hands in pockets.
Caleb slowed.
The figure didn't move.
He angled slightly to the right—so did the shadowy figure.
Caleb sighed.
"Not tonight," he muttered.
The figure lunged.
Caleb drew his knife in a flash, sidestepping as the attacker swung a short blade toward his ribs. Caleb deflected, twisted the man's wrist, and shoved him against the brick wall. He pressed the edge of his knife under the man's jaw.
"Talk," Caleb snarled.
The attacker swallowed.
His voice trembled. "I—I'm not Syndicate. I swear."
"Then who sent you?"
"N-No one! I'm with the Pavilions—independent runners. We track information… and your bounty just hit every underworld board in the district."
Caleb's grip tightened.
"How much."
The man hesitated.
"How much?"
"Eight hundred thousand for you dead," the attacker blurted. "One point two million if you're delivered alive."
Caleb felt a chill despite the rain.
That meant global players were involved. Big money. Big secrets.
He released the man with a shove. The attacker sprinted away into the darkness without looking back.
Caleb wiped rain from his brow.
The Syndicate.
Independent runners.
And probably more incoming.
Everyone wanted him dead.
And whoever burned him knew exactly how to make the entire underworld come hunting.
Caleb kept moving, crossing into a darker district. He finally reached a boarded-up pawn shop with a faint blue "OPEN" sign flickering behind its cracked window.
Inside was a staircase leading underground.
Mira's safehouse.
Caleb stepped quietly down the stairs. A steel door waited at the bottom. He knocked twice.
Silence.
Then a metallic click echoed on the other side.
The door opened a crack.
A single sharp blue eye peered through the gap.
Mira Lockhart.
She spoke in a voice calm enough to be terrifying.
"You look like hell, Voss."
"You're not exactly my first choice for hospitality," Caleb replied. "But someone burned me. Someone high enough to make the Syndicate and half the underworld storm the streets."
Mira opened the door fully.
Her expression didn't change.
"Good," she said. "Then we don't have much time."
Caleb froze. "You knew this would happen?"
Mira turned away, her footsteps echoing deeper into the safehouse.
"Not knew," she said. "Anticipated."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"And you're going to want to sit down for what comes next."
End of chapter 2