Ethan's jaw was a jagged line of granite as he drove. His earpiece was patched directly into the Royal Defense Grid, and the audio was a symphony of nightmares. He heard the wet thud of bullets hitting flesh, the frantic last breaths of his men over open comms, and the relentless chatter of automatic fire. The losses were heavy—too heavy.
But for every Royal soldier who fell, five or six mercenaries were being shredded by the disciplined return fire. Yet, the enemy had the advantage of madness and numbers.
"Crul, the velvet gloves are off. Activate Emergency Protocol: Iron Curtain," Ethan said.
[[Protocol Iron Curtain authorized. Engaging autonomous defense systems,]] Crul replied.
In an instant, high-frequency sirens wailed from every Royal-owned skyscraper and warehouse across the city. Small, sleek panels slid open in the masonry of the buildings, revealing automated micro-turrets.
