Chapter 5 - The Devil's Workshop
They didn't run far. Brick knew that running from the Obsidian Syndicate was a game of diminishing returns. You couldn't outrun ghosts; you had to turn around and trap them.
He drove their stolen muscle car into an abandoned steel mill on the outskirts of the city. The massive, rusting structure was a labyrinth of catwalks, giant furnaces, and heavy machinery. It was an arena.
"We stop running here," Brick said, pulling an absurd amount of weaponry from the trunk. Assault rifles, tripwires, C4 explosives, and smoke grenades.
Leo carried ammo boxes, his small arms straining under the weight. "Are we going to fight them all?" the boy asked, his voice shaking.
"No, Leo. I'm going to fight them. You are going to survive." Brick led the boy to a reinforced supervisor's booth suspended high above the factory floor. It was made of bulletproof glass and heavy steel. "Lock the door. Don't come out, no matter what you hear, no matter what you see. Understand?"
Leo grabbed Brick’s leather sleeve. The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold coin, pressing it into Brick’s massive palm. "For luck," Leo whispered.
Brick looked at the coin, then at the boy. For the first time since the night began, the towering biker smiled. It was a fierce, proud smile. "I'll be right back, kid."
Ten minutes later, the screech of tires echoed through the cavernous steel mill. Black SUVs surrounded the entrances. Dozens of tactical laser sights cut through the dusty darkness of the factory floor like predatory red eyes.
From the shadows, Brick racked the slide of an assault rifle. He struck a flare, holding it up, illuminating his scarred face in the red, hellish glow.
May you like
"Welcome to my house," Brick roared, his voice amplified by the metal walls. He tossed the flare onto a puddle of gasoline he had poured near the entrance.
A wall of fire erupted, separating the strike team. The battle for the boy’s life had begun.
