I looked across the open warehouse floor to where the robots stood silent in the center of the space. The maintenance terminal sat about ten feet from the functioning Dreadnought, its screen still glowing from our earlier diagnostics,and crucially the serial cable still attached to the Dreadnought.
David and the wounded bodyguard were pinned near the destroyed entrance, barely twenty feet from the Hellfire Club operatives. Any attempt to break cover and sprint for the terminal would put them directly in the crossfire - an instant death sentence under the muzzles of those HK91s. Jimmy was further behind me near the shipping containers, completely out of the running.
But from my position behind the shelf, I had the shortest route - twenty feet of open ground with the robots and the flimsy desk providing the only cover once I arrived. It was still dicey, but at least it was possible.
The Hellfire Club operatives had spread out in a textbook assault formation. Two had taken cover behind concrete support pillars on either side of the destroyed entrance, their rifles angled to create overlapping fields of fire. A third had dropped prone behind a stack of metal drums near the former doorway, his rifle's tactical light cutting through the warehouse's shadows. The fourth operative was moving along the left wall, using a series of industrial shelving units as cover while he advanced toward Jimmy's position.
The power-armored leader stood in the center of the breach, apparently confident that his magenta plating could handle whatever we threw at him. He was scanning the warehouse methodically, his dark visor turning toward each of our positions in turn.
Rosa's concussion pistol discharged with a deep, thrumming whump that I felt in my chest cavity. The invisible blast caught the stack of metal drums, launching them like massive projectiles. The heavy cylinders tumbled through the air with devastating force, crushing the prone operative against the concrete wall in an explosion of twisted metal and wet impact before he could even react. His rifle clattered uselessly across the floor as both he and the drums collapsed in a mangled heap.
The remaining three operatives immediately shifted positions, their training kicking in as they reassessed the threat level. The one who'd been advancing along the left wall abandoned his flanking maneuver and sprinted toward a concrete support pillar. The two behind the entrance pillars pulled back deeper into cover, angling themselves to minimize exposure to Rosa's position while maintaining overlapping fields of fire. Their rifles barked in more disciplined bursts now—suppressing fire meant to keep us pinned while they re-positioned and reassessed rather than the aggressive advance they'd started with.
Tommy caught my eye and jerked his head toward the terminal, his meaning clear. Then he made a sharp whirling gesture with his off-hand toward Rosa, who was huddled behind a wooden shipping crate about fifteen feet to his left. She looked pale and shaky, but nodded and raised her bulky concussion pistol with both hands.
The coordinated suppressing fire began immediately. Rosa started firing systematically at the Hellfire operatives' cover positions, each concussion blast sending invisible waves that made their concrete pillars shake and forced them to duck. The bodyguard heard what we were trying to accomplish and joined in, sending cool, consistent three-round bursts from his Uzi downrange. Even Jimmy contributed some desultory pistol fire from behind the shipping containers, his shots wild but contributing to keeping their heads down.
David focused his plasma pistol on the power-armored figure, the bolts leaving scorch marks on the armor's magenta plating. The armored leader seemed to reassess the threat level upon realizing we had energy weapons that could actually damage their armor, and beat a measured retreat back behind the remnants of the wall around the breach point.
The suppressing fire created exactly the window I needed. I holstered my needle pistol. Figuring there was no time like the present—and desperately wishing anybody on my side was carrying a grenade—I burst into a dead sprint toward the terminal.
Twenty feet. Fifteen.
A round spanged off the concrete beside me, sending razor-sharp fragments slicing across my left thigh. The shrapnel tore through my jeans and bit deep into muscle, hot blood immediately soaking the fabric. I hissed as needles of pain lanced up my leg, my stride faltering for a split second before I drove myself forward again.
That stumble from the impact saved my life. A three-round burst chewed through the air exactly where my head would have been, the rounds snapping over my head.
Ten feet. Five.
I coiled my muscles and desperately dove the last distance, my wounded leg buckling as I hit the floor chest first. My already bruised ribs screamed in fresh agony as they slammed into the unforgiving concrete, forcing a sharp gasp from my lungs. White-hot pain flared through my torso as I rolled behind the maintenance setup, every breath sending fresh spikes of hurt through my battered ribcage. The terminal chair took another burst, plastic and metal fragments raining down as I crawled behind the computer desk.
Blood was running down my leg, the shrapnel wounds burning like fire, while my ribs felt like someone was driving railroad spikes between them with every shallow breath. But I could still move, still function. I'd be limping for months and sleeping sitting up for a while, but I wasn't going to bleed out in the next few minutes.
I ducked my head up during a lull in the rifle fire and frantically scanned the screen:
Code:DREADNOUGHT MARK-I v1.2
SYSTEM STATUS: STANDBY
LAST BOOT: 05/08/84 14:32:07
MAIN MENU:
Status
Mission Load
Weapons Check
Motor Test
Error Report
Shutdown
I hammered "2" for Mission Load and watched the screen flash:
Code:MISSION LOAD MENU:
Available Presets:
Search and Destroy
Facility Defense
Return to Main Menu
The Dreadnought's boot sequence initiated with a low harmonic whine that seemed to sync perfectly with the rising pitch of the Hellfire Club leader's charging weapon as he stepped back into the room. I slammed "2" - Facility Defense and ducked under the desk.
Popping my head back up and fumbling for my needle pistol, I saw David send a few more plasma bolts crackling toward the power-armored figure. The operator shrugged off the impacts, confident now that his armor could handle the energy weapon. When the bodyguard paused to reload his Uzi, one of the riflemen immediately capitalized on the gap in suppressing fire, sending a sharp three-round burst David's way that forced him to duck back behind his pillar.
I dove back under the desk as the Dreadnought's servo motors came online with a whir, first the legs with a heavy thunk-thunk as stabilizers engaged, then the torso swiveling with hydraulic hisses.
I popped my head back up finally getting my pistol drawn, and rattled off 7 needles towards the general area of the club operatives.
The screen updated:
Code:FACILITY DEFENSE PROTOCOL ACTIVATED
SCANNING FOR FRIENDLY IFF SIGNATURES...
AIM PERSONNEL DETECTED: 3 SIGNATURES
SCANNING FOR HOSTILES...
UNIDENTIFIED ARMED CONTACTS: 6 SIGNATURES
My luck finally ran out, as something grazed my left forearm. I dived back under the desk from the terminal. Biting back a scream I limped,sprinted and scrambled toward the towering Sentinel, throwing myself behind one of its massive legs. The armored limb was barely wide enough to provide cover, but it would have to do.
The fire at my location slacked off from "sporadic" to "nonexistent". The Hellfire Club operatives seemed reluctant to put too many rounds into the Sentinel itself. Considerate of them, since Shaw probably wouldn't appreciate damage to his sixty-million-dollar investment.
Peeking out, I saw the Dreadnought's head snap toward the power-armored figure,snapping the cable attaching it to the computer. Unfortunately his concussion cannon had reached full charge. The power-armored leader fired, his compression blast tearing apart what remained of the desk and computer terminal in a shower of sparks and twisted metal. The concussive wave buffeted the Dreadnought but barely staggered the eight-foot robot.
Ducking my head back behind the leg as I saw movement from the (probable) location of one of the hellfire guards, I heard a sequence of 4 loud bangs from the direction of the Dreadnought. After some blind fire with my needle pistol, I popped my head back up.
The power-armored Hellfire operative was limping now, with fractures in there armor centered around 4 of the tungsten knuckle spikes sticking out of their power armor. The operator started charging their concussion cannon again.I was (frankly) shocked that they were still alive, let alone moving. I mentally bumped up my estimate of the power armor a few notches. The operative let off another blast from the cannon that actually rocked the dreadnought back. The Dreadnought made a loud CLANG. I cursed quietly. That had probably caused some internal damage.
The Dreadnought jerkily turned to face the operative again,lifted its arm and fired one more spike directly at his head. The fire directed at my allies slacked as the Hellfire club commandos turned to deal with the new threat, unloading at the Dreadnaught. Bullets pinged off the Dreadnaught's armor and I dodged back behind the Sentinel's leg again. Wouldn't do to catch a ricochet.
From behind the Sentinel's leg, I could only catch glimpses of what was happening through the smoke and debris. The sounds told most of the story - the rapid bangs of the remaining knuckle spikes launching, then the heavy footfalls of the Dreadnought advancing. I heard one of the operatives scream, a sound that cut off abruptly with an electrical crackle.
Then came a different sound - a soft hiss that I recognized from the technical specs. The freon gas dispenser. The Dreadnought was going to freeze the last man solid.
A single rifle shot cracked through the warehouse, followed immediately by what sounded like a pressurized tank rupturing. The explosion that followed was unlike anything I'd ever heard - a wet, tearing sound as super-cooled gas mixed with sparking electronics. Steam and acrid smoke billowed past my hiding spot as something massive crashed to the concrete with enough force to make the floor vibrate under my feet.
I risked a look around the Sentinel's leg. Through the haze, I could see the Dreadnought's bulk sprawled across the warehouse floor, steam pouring from its joints and what looked like its mouth. The last Hellfire operative was already sprinting toward the destroyed loading bay entrance, his rifle slung and forgotten as he prioritized escape over anything else.
No fucking way. That lucky bastard had actually taken down a combat robot with a single shot through its open mouth. The odds of hitting that small a target at that angle, with that timing...
The sudden silence that followed was deafening. After minutes of gunfire, explosions, and mechanical whining, the warehouse felt almost tomb-like. In the distance, I could hear sirens approaching, and the sound of the surviving operative's boots echoing as he disappeared into the night.
The wounded bodyguard raised his Uzi, trying to line up a shot on the fleeing Hellfire operative through the smoke and debris. The muzzle wavered as he squeezed the trigger, but the burst went wide, sparks flying off concrete as the rounds missed their mark entirely.
"Shit," he muttered, lowering the weapon with obvious frustration. "That's gonna be trouble for sure. Boss ain't gonna like hearing one of 'em got away."
I struggled to my feet after holstering my pistol, using the Sentinel's leg for support as waves of pain washed over me. "I'm hit," I called out, my voice echoing through the warehouse. "Two grazes - left thigh and forearm. Nothing fatal, but I'm bleeding pretty good over here."
Tommy emerged from behind the forklift, his .38 still in hand as he surveyed the carnage. "Jesus Christ. Everyone else okay?"
Rosa stood up from her crate, pressing her hand against her shoulder where blood was seeping through her jacket. "I caught some shrapnel," she said through gritted teeth. "Concrete fragments from that first blast."
David and the bodyguard cautiously came out from behind their pillar, David's plasma pistol still crackling faintly before powering down with a descending whine as he engaged what looked like a safety. Jimmy poked his head up from behind the shipping containers, his face pale in the emergency lighting.
"We got lucky," David said, holstering his weapon and looking at the destroyed Dreadnought. "Good thing we all wore our IFFs. That thing would have gone completely ballistic if it thought it was surrounded by hostiles instead of just the four Hellfire operatives and you two." He gestured at Jimmy and myself.
Tommy nodded grimly. "Facility Defense protocol's designed to protect AIM assets. Without our transponders, it would've plugged the highest threat enemy with *all* the tungsten spikes, then started going crazy with the particle beams and flamethrowers." He winced, thinking of a previous incident. "Decontamination is a real bitch if it gets crazy with the gamma, which is why Facility Defense mode keeps the heavy weapons in reserve unless things get really hairy."
"Why'd it prioritize the power armor guy?" the bodyguard asked, an odd parallel to Rosa, as he was holding pressure on his opposite shoulder.
"Threat assessment algorithm," David explained. "Power armor registers as a pretty high threat level- heavy armor, integrated weapons systems. Once it took him down, it shifted to the next biggest threats - the operatives with the high-powered rifles who were actively shooting at it."
"Thank fuck for small favors," Jimmy muttered from behind his cover, but his voice was shaky now that the adrenaline was wearing off.
Jimmy emerged from behind the shipping containers, his face pale and his hands trembling slightly. He looked around at the destruction—the twisted metal, the scorch marks, the blood—and his breathing became rapid and shallow.
"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Jimmy exploded, his voice cracking with panic. "I didn't know the goddamn Sentinel was hot enough for people to be shooting up warehouses over it! This was supposed to be routine repair work, not a fucking war zone!"
He ran his hands through his hair, pacing frantically, then quickly crossed himself. "Jesus Christ, what if they come back? What if there are more of them?"
Jimmy disappeared into what looked like a side office. "I need to call my uncle. Christ, I hope they didn't cut the phone lines before they came in." The thick walls muffled his voice as he dialed, leaving only the sound of urgent, strained conversation that I couldn't make out.
"Tommy," David called out, "you got medical supplies in the van?"
"Yeah, Rosa always keeps a first aid kit." Tommy was already jogging toward the loading dock. "Got some tourniquets in there too."
Rosa nodded weakly, still pressing her hand against her shoulder. "Standard kit for field work. Never know what kind of accidents might happen."
Tommy returned a few minutes later with a comprehensive medical kit. The tourniquets were indeed military grade - the kind of gear that suggested the AIM team had seen their share of dangerous situations. He worked efficiently, binding Rosa's shoulder wound first, then moving to my thigh and forearm.
"This'll hold until you can get proper medical attention," he said, pulling the tourniquet tight on my leg. "But you're gonna need stitches on both of these."
I winced as he secured the bindings. "Thanks. Better than bleeding out on a warehouse floor."
Tommy nodded, moving on to the bodyguard.
Thirty minutes later, I was sitting on the loading dock with my wounds properly dressed, watching the street for any sign of Jimmy's uncle. The sirens had faded into the distance - probably responding to some other crisis in a city that never seemed to run out of them.
Then I heard them coming. The low rumble of powerful engines, multiple vehicles moving in formation. The convoy that rolled up to the warehouse was impressive - a black Maserati Quattroporte leading 2 Buick Regals and, bringing up the rear (tailed by a Cutlass Supreme), a heavy-duty 18-wheeler that looked like it could haul serious cargo, along with 2 box trucks.
The convoy pulled to a stop, and men began emerging from the cars. Standard mob enforcer types, mostly - thick-set guys in cheap suits with the kind of bulges under their jackets that suggested concealed weapons. But the two men who got out of the back of the Quattroporte were different.
They wore what looked like advanced body armor - not bulky tactical gear, but something sleek and form-fitting that moved like fabric but gleamed like metal in the warehouse lights. The subtle shimmer of the material suggested some kind of advanced composite, maybe even energy-resistant properties. Both guards were carrying some sort of high caliber rifle I couldn't identify at a glance, which was odd in of itself.
The man who climbed out of the Quattroporte's back seat was clearly Jimmy's uncle. He was an Italian man in his late 50's sporting wire-rimmed glasses who bore a distinct family resemblance - the same strong jawline that marked them as clearly related. His eyes swept over the destroyed warehouse entrance with the clinical assessment of someone who'd seen plenty of violence before.
"Well," he said, his voice carrying easily across the loading dock. "This is quite a mess, isn't it?"
Jimmy emerged from the office, still looking shaken. "Uncle Tony, I'm sorry, I didn't know-"
"Easy, kid." Tony held up a hand, then walked over to examine the destruction more closely. His gaze lingered on the twisted remains of the Dreadnought, the blast patterns on the walls, and the corpses. "Hellfire Club mercenaries?"
The wounded bodyguard nodded. "Figured they were professional mercs, I just didn't know who's payroll they were on."
Tony's expression hardened. "So let me understand this correctly. The Hellfire Club sent a strike team who almost killed my nephew, because they wanted some hardware."
He walked over to where Jimmy was standing, still pale from the firefight, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You did good, kid. Kept your head,from what you said on the phone. But this..." He gestured toward the destroyed loading bay entrance and the corpses. "This changes things."
One of his men, a heavy-set man in his thirties, approached cautiously. "Boss, maybe we should just walk away from this one. Cut our losses, you know?"
Tony's expression hardened further. "Walk away? Sal, they shot at my nephew. They nearly killed him and all of his coworkers." He shook his head slowly. "No. We're selling that Sentinel, and we're getting top dollar for it. We aren't starting a war, we aren't killing any of their men or burning any of their property, we're just letting them know that coming after us has consequences."
He turned to address the group. "Get that eighteen-wheeler backed up to the loading dock. I want that robot loaded and moved to the Pennsylvania site within the hour. And someone get on the phone to our fixer friend. I want to sell this quick before anybody gets ideas."
Jimmy looked up at his uncle with a mixture of relief and concern. "Uncle Tony, are you sure about this? The Hellfire Club's got serious resources..."
Tony adjusted his glasses, his voice taking on the patient tone of someone explaining a basic fact about the world. "Jimmy, in this line of work, you don't let people take shots at you for free. Word gets out that we're soft, and everyone starts thinking they can push us around. Sometimes you gotta push back, even when it's dicy."
The 18-wheeler's hydraulic systems whined to life as the crew began preparing to load the Sentinel. Tony's bodyguards took up positions around the perimeter, their advanced armor gleaming under the warehouse lights.
"What about the AIM team?" Tony asked, nodding toward David, Tommy, and Rosa.
"They helped us out during the fight," Jimmy said quickly. "Rosa got hurt covering our asses."
Tony studied the three AIM technicians for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. You three need medical attention, we'll make sure you get it. Professional courtesy." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small piece of paper, handing it to David. "Just remember - what happened here tonight stays between us."
David nodded. "Understood. We were never here."
Tony turned to me, his expression businesslike. "You're the tech guy, right? Can you get that Sentinel to lie down flat where we need it? We've got the gear to roll it into the trailer, but it needs to be prone."
I nodded, looking up at the towering robot. "Yeah, I can access the movement systems. Just need to reconnect to it."
"Jimmy," Tony called out. "Get back up there and plug that cable in. We need to move fast."
The scaffold had miraculously survived the firefight mostly intact - the Hellfire operatives had been careful not to damage the valuable Sentinel, which had inadvertently protected our equipment. Jimmy tentatively climbed up the framework, reconnecting the diagnostic cable to the robot's head, then opening the panel and slotting in the new memory unit.
"There," he called down. "You're good."
Jimmy climbed down from the scaffold and handed me the serial end of the cable connected to the Sentinel. I limped back to where one of Tony's men had set up a portable terminal on a TV tray, my wounded leg throbbing with each step. The Sentinel's familiar menu appeared on the screen, thankfully glitch-free:
Code:SHAW INDUSTRIES SENTINEL MK-V v2.3.1
SYSTEM STATUS: STANDBY
AUTHENTICATION: VERIFIED DEVELOPER ACCESS GRANTED
MAIN MENU:
1.System Diagnostics
2.Hardware Status
3.Software Configuration
4.Sensor Calibration
5.Movement Systems
6.Weapons Systems
7.Communication Protocols
8.Memory/Storage Management
9.Emergency Procedures
10.ExitI selected option 5 for Movement Systems:
Code:MOVEMENT SYSTEMS MENU:
Basic Locomotion
Combat Maneuvers
Transport Mode
Emergency Shutdown
Position Calibration
Return to Main Menu"Transport Mode," I muttered, selecting option 3. "That's exactly what we need."
Code:TRANSPORT MODE CONFIGURATION:
1.Shipping Configuration
2.Custom Position
Please select transport mode:I selected option 2 - Shipping Configuration. The screen displayed:
Code:SHIPPING CONFIGURATION - LIDAR MAPPING
Scanning environment...
Processing spatial data...
Generating transport grid...
A wireframe overhead map appeared on the screen, clearly generated from LIDAR data. The warehouse layout was rendered in simple lines showing walls, the concrete support pillars, and obstacles like the twisted remains of the Dreadnought and scattered debris. Clear floor space was divided into numbered grid squares, each approximately two meters square. The Sentinel's current position was marked with a flashing indicator.
WAREHOUSE FLOOR PLAN - TRANSPORT GRID
Grid coordinates available for prone positioning: C3, C4, D3, D4, E3, E4, F3, F4 [Current position: D2]
Select target grid coordinates:
Tony's crew had positioned a series of steel rollers—which looked suspiciously like repurposed metal piping—in a straight line from grid F3 to the open rear of the 18-wheeler. The makeshift track system created a clear path up the trailer's loading ramps, with each section of pipe carefully spaced to distribute the Sentinel's massive weight. I typed "F3" and hit enter.
The system prompted: Confirm prone positioning at F3? Unit will power down after positioning. (Y/N):
"Jimmy, climb back up there and grab that cable!" I called out. As he scrambled up the scaffold, I typed "Y" and immediately looked around. "Jimmy, just hold on tight! You two," I shouted to a pair of Tony's men, "pull that scaffolding back—move it clear!"
"Everyone else clear!" I called out as the men began dragging the framework away from the Sentinel. "Robot's about to move!"
The ground vibrated as the Sentinel's massive systems came online. Servo motors whined to life with mechanical precision, and the twenty-foot giant began to move.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer presence of it in motion. When I'd seen the Dreadnought fighting, I'd been focused on survival, adrenaline narrowing my vision to immediate threats. But now, watching the Sentinel deliberately walk across the warehouse floor, the full reality of what I was witnessing really had a chance to sink in.
Each footstep sent tremors through the concrete. The robot moved with deliberate, measured steps, its massive frame swaying slightly as sophisticated gyroscopes maintained perfect balance. Twenty feet of advanced engineering and artificial intelligence, walking with purpose toward its designated coordinates. The scale was overwhelming - this wasn't just a machine, it was a mobile weapons platform that could level city blocks.
The Sentinel reached grid F3 and began its descent sequence. Hydraulic systems hissed as the giant carefully lowered itself into a prone position, its movements controlled and precise. The massive head touched down last, and then the Sentinel powered itself off.
"Holy shit," Jimmy breathed from his perch on the scaffold. "I've never seen it actually move before. When we brought it in here,we had to stand it up with a bunch of chain hoists."
I stared at the now-motionless robot, still slightly in awe. From my comic book knowledge , I'd known these machines were dangerous. Seeing one move with such deliberate purpose drove home exactly why they were so feared.
"Alright," Tony said, unmoved by the spectacle. "Let's get this thing loaded before we attract any more unwanted attention."
After considerable effort getting it positioned on the roller system, the Sentinel began its slow journey toward the 18-wheeler, the steel rollers groaning under its weight
Tony approached me as his crew started to move the sentinel. He moved with the measured pace of someone who'd just survived a crisis and was taking stock of the aftermath.
"You did good tonight, Quince," he said, extending his hand. "Jimmy filled me in on the whole thing over the phone. Says you activated that Dreadnought when everyone was pinned down."
I shrugged, accepting his handshake. "We might have survived anyway. Rosa took out one of them with that concussion pistol, and-"
Tony cut me off with a shake of his head. "Let me stop you right there. I've been in this business for thirty years, and I know how these things go. One experienced soldier," he nodded toward the wounded bodyguard, "and a bunch of smart kids with limited combat experience? Against a professional strike team?" He adjusted his glasses. "Even with Rosa dropping one of them, the other four would have chewed you up. That robot activation was the only thing that turned the tide."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. "The consultation was worth a grand, and we had you down for per-robot restoration work as we got the machines operational. But you stepped up when it counted and saved my nephew's life." Tony's voice carried the weight of genuine gratitude tempered by business pragmatism. "I'm calling it fifteen thousand total - full payment even though those robots are still in pieces. That's gratitude for someone who went above and beyond for my family."
He handed me the envelope, the weight of cash substantial in my hands. "I'll let Vito know his recommendation worked out." Tony paused, studying me with calculating eyes. "If you're looking for more technical work down the line, stay in touch through him. Word gets around about people who can operate under pressure."
The wounded bodyguard, his arm in an improvised sling, walked over and Tony handed him a similar envelope. "Sal, you held your ground when it mattered. Take care of that shoulder."
Tony's assessment was probably accurate. Professional mercenaries with military-grade weapons and training versus a bunch of nerds and one mob soldier all with sidearms- the outcome would have been predictable without the Dreadnought's intervention. Rosa's concussion blast had been impressive, but the four remaining operatives would have been more than enough to finish the job.
"Just remember," Tony continued, "what happened here tonight doesn't leave this group. The Hellfire Club made their play, but we're not starting a war. We're just making sure they understand that coming after my family has consequences."
Tony's crew moved with practiced efficiency as soon as the Sentinel was secured. Heavy chains and industrial ratchet straps formed a web of restraints across the prone robot, ensuring it wouldn't shift during transport. The trailer visibly sagged under the weight, but the reinforced Atlas Auto 18-wheeler held firm.
Atlas Auto. The name tickled something in my memory - wasn't there some connection to... something important? The thought slipped away as Tony's crew continued their work. I'd have to add it to my mental checklist of things to remember/research. I'd have plenty of time for that once I was clear of here.
Two of Tony's men were already working near the loading dock entrance, zipping black body bags around the still forms of Mickey and Frank with a attitude of grim efficiency. One of them gestured toward the Hellfire Club corpses and the slumped over power-armored figure "Boss, what about them?" Tony barely glanced at the bodies. "Not our problem." His voice carried a cold finality. "We clean up our own mess, let the Hellfire Club deal with theirs."
The second box truck pulled up and Tony's crew immediately began the grim task of collecting the warehouse's other robotic casualties. The disassembled remains of the second dreadnought went in first -the severely damaged unit with its melted power systems. Even as scrap, the advanced technology was worth salvaging.
The HYDRA Mankiller followed, its green-painted bulk requiring careful maneuvering. Deep gouges across its torso caught the warehouse lights as they loaded it, evidence of whatever battle had disabled it.
"What about the destroyed one?" Jimmy asked, nodding toward the wreckage of the Dreadnought that had saved our lives.
Tony studied the metal carcass for a moment. "Leave it. Too damaged to be worth the effort, and we need to move fast."
The first box truck rumbled to life, loaded with the various accoutrements used to load the Sentinel. The second truck's diesel engine coughed and settled into a steady growl as Tony's crew finished securing the damaged robots inside.
"Time to go," Tony announced. His bodyguards were already moving toward the Quattroporte.
David approached me as I stood on the loading dock, still feeling unsteady from the blood loss and adrenaline crash. "You need a ride somewhere? We're heading back to the city anyway."
I looked around at the departing convoy. Tony's operation was military-precise in its evacuation - no wasted motion, no lingering. Within minutes, they'd be gone.
"Yeah," I said, accepting David's offer. "I need to get to the Upper West Side. 72nd and Amsterdam."
"Medical attention?" Rosa asked, noting my bandaged wounds.
"Yep."
The AIM van pulled away from the warehouse as Tony's convoy disappeared into the Queens night. Through the rear window, I watched the building recede, smoke still rising from the destroyed loading bay into the night.
"72nd and Amsterdam," David confirmed as we headed toward the Queensboro Bridge. "Discrete medical services?"
"Yep," I replied, settling back into the van's seat and trying not to think about how much my body hurt.
The city lights blurred past as we drove through the night, leaving behind the scene of my second firefight, though the consequences traveled with me in every sharp breath through bruised ribs and every pulse of pain from the shrapnel wounds.