Page 138 of Shadow Waltz

The fragmentation grenade I'd taken from the dead team leader rolled down the corridor like a metallic egg containing the promise of systematic destruction. The explosion that followed eliminated cover and concealment, leaving the surviving team members exposed and vulnerable in a corridor that had become a killing ground.

Automatic gunfire from the assault rifle eliminated the wounded survivors with methodical thoroughness, each burst placed with accuracy that spoke to muscle memory developed through necessity rather than training. Bodies accumulated inthe corridor like grotesque artwork, blood mixing with concrete dust to create abstract patterns of death and desperation.

But even as I moved through the carnage toward whatever extraction route might exist, I could hear more tactical teams converging on my position. Radio chatter suggested they'd identified my location and were coordinating to pin me down in the building's central core.

The stairwell I entered was a concrete canyon designed to channel movement between floors, but it also created perfect kill zones for anyone with elevated position and automatic weapons. I could hear boots on metal stairs above and below, tactical teams moving to bracket my position with overwhelming firepower.

The thermite grenade I'd improvised from maintenance chemicals and magnesium strips turned the stairwell's metal railings into molten barriers that would channel movement exactly where I wanted it. The resulting explosion sent superheated metal cascading through the concrete space like liquid death, eliminating the team ascending from below in screams and smoke.

The team descending from above had better positioning but worse judgment, trying to advance through a space filled with toxic smoke and molten metal barriers. The assault rifle's muzzle flash illuminated their positions perfectly, and I eliminated them with sustained bursts that painted the concrete walls with blood and brain matter.

25

RECKONING

LUKA

Three days. That was how long it took to breach the darkness between hope and certainty. Three days since Ash was taken, since he disappeared into the system’s black maw—a ghost without a phone, stripped of every lifeline except the one I’d left for him. Three days of tearing through safehouses, interrogating informants, and bleeding for scraps of intel that always led to dead ends.

If it hadn’t been for the collar, I might’ve lost him for good.

The diamond collar at Ash’s throat wasn’t just a symbol or a claim. Embedded in the clasp, disguised as a luxury accent, was a tracker. I’d paid a small fortune to have it custom-built—encrypted, silent, impossible to find without the right codes. It was our last insurance policy, something I’d sworn I’d never use unless everything else failed.

It failed the moment he vanished.

But the bastards who took him were smart. They jammed every signal, locked down the prison with government-grade tech, fried anything wireless in a hundred-yard radius. For threedays, Troy and Dmitri and I rotated in shifts, burning our eyes in front of stolen laptops, running brute-force cracks through layer after layer of firewalls. Troy nearly put his fist through the monitor twice. Dmitri said nothing, but his silences got longer and colder.

Me? I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I just sat with the weight of that silent tracker, praying to gods I didn’t believe in that Ash was still alive to wear it.

On the third day, at 3:27 a.m., the signal flickered back to life—faint, erratic, but real.

Dmitri nearly crushed his coffee cup when the blip appeared on the map. “We have him,” he breathed.

Troy was already moving, grabbing guns and gear, eyes feral. “Let’s go get our boy.”

I stared at that blinking dot for a heartbeat, hope and terror warring in my chest. Then I grabbed my gun, stuffed extra mags into my jacket, and ran like hell. No more hesitation. No more waiting. The only thing between Ash and oblivion was the violence I was willing to unleash.

Troy was already at the door, a blunt force of nature in body armor and black fatigues, shoving fresh clips into his vest. Dmitri ghosted behind, his knives already strapped and eyes glinting with quiet fury. We moved as a unit, no words needed—just the momentum of desperation and intent. The city above was just noise. Down here, it was death’s playground, and we were the monsters who ran it.

The tunnels beneath Midtown were a rotting lattice of old subway lines and service corridors, reeking of wet concrete and stale air. My boots splashed through standing water as we dropped off the last maintenance ladder. We hit the ground running, guns drawn, silence our only signal.

The tracker’s signal pulsed on my phone, guiding us deeper into the underbelly. Static crackled over stolen comms: “TeamDelta, report—possible breach—” We melted into the shadows as two agents passed by, their flashlights jittery with nerves. Troy struck first, grabbing the rear man and crushing his windpipe before he could scream. Dmitri slipped a blade into the leader’s kidney, catching him as he folded, then eased the body down with surgical care.

I kept moving. No hesitation. Every second counted.

We rounded a corner and nearly stumbled into a checkpoint—three men in federal tac gear, rifles slung but ready. One looked up, eyes going wide. “Hey?—!”

I shot him in the face, the report deafening in the tunnel. Blood spattered the wall, and the other two dropped, scrambling for cover. Troy charged, a human battering ram, smashing a rifle aside and driving his fist into the agent’s throat. Bones snapped; the agent crumpled. Dmitri spun behind the last man, looping an arm around his neck and cutting deep, arterial spray jetting hot against the tunnel wall.

No time for clean-up. We pressed on, the sick-sweet scent of blood trailing behind us. The signal grew stronger, every heartbeat synced with the rhythm of our boots. Sirens echoed above—someone had tripped an alarm—but down here, we were the only law.

A distant clatter of gunfire ricocheted through the tunnels. My chest clenched. Ash. He had to be close.

We broke through a maintenance door and entered a wide service corridor lined with broken tile and ancient graffiti. The air here was electric with panic. Ahead, two agents dragged a limp body—Ash’s body, my mind screamed—but as we closed in, the body jerked upright and slammed an elbow into the first agent’s nose, spraying blood. Ash whirled, knife flashing, and buried it in the second agent’s thigh. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t freeze. He justmoved, the same way I’d taught him years ago.

“Ash!” I shouted, already raising my gun. Ash’s head snapped up. His face was smeared with blood and sweat, collar gleaming even in the half-dark.

“Get back!” he yelled, hurling the first agent into the wall. He snatched the fallen man’s pistol, racking a round as the second tried to recover. I dropped the agent with a shot through the temple, blood misting the flickering lights.