Chapter 8 - WRATH OF THE FROST
The old Chelsea Creek warehouse was heavily guarded. Marcus had stationed heavily armed men at every entrance, expecting a tactical assault. He didn't expect a ghost.
Rowan arrived not in stealth, but in an armored black SUV, driven by Vance. The vehicle smashed straight through the front loading bay doors, sending guards flying and debris raining down. Before the dust could even settle, Rowan was out. His wheelchair had been heavily modified—bullet-resistant paneling and all-terrain tires.
He moved like a mechanized reaper. Gunfire erupted, but Rowan’s tactical brilliance was unmatched. He used the cover of the SUV, returning fire with lethal accuracy. He didn't miss. Every shot was a calculation, every movement planned ten steps ahead.
Inside the main warehouse floor, Marcus held a gun to Elara’s head. Mia was crying in the corner.
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"Stop right there, Hale!" Marcus screamed, using Elara as a human shield as Rowan emerged from the smoke, his gun steady. "You’re pathetic! A cripple trying to play hero!"
"I am paralyzed, Marcus," Rowan said, his voice echoing off the corrugated steel walls. "But my trigger finger works just fine."
