The shotgun clicked.
It was a dry, hollow sound, barely audible over the roar of the rain hammering the corrugated tin roof of the warehouse. To Sathwik, however, that sound was louder than a bomb. It was the sound of the end.
He stood behind a stack of concrete barriers at the mouth of the South Bridge checkpoint, the heavy weapon useless in his hands. Around him, the bodies of the Corvini heavy weapons team lay twisted in the mud, six men, all veterans, all dead within the first three minutes of the assault. They had not been killed by superior tactics; they had been drowned by a wave of sheer, suicidal numbers.
John Corvini had said, Hold the line. No one crosses.
Sathwik looked over the barrier. Through the sheets of rain and the strobelight flashes of muzzle fire, he saw them. Dozens of them. Men from the West Side Syndicate, Triad enforcers with machetes, Russian contractors with military rifles. They were not moving with the disciplined spacing of a squad. They were swarming like insects, climbing over the fences, sprinting across the open tarmac, screaming with a rage that disregarded their own survival.
Marco's voice had been right. This was not an army. It was a flood.
Sathwik dropped the empty shotgun. It splashed into the oily puddle at his feet.
He checked his belt. His sidearm was gone, lost in the initial melee when a grenade had blown him backward into the wall. His knife was there, but the blade had snapped an inch from the hilt after he drove it into the vest of a Russian who had rushed his position.
He was weaponless. He was alone. And the flood was rising.
A bullet chipped the concrete inches from his face, spraying dust into his eyes. He did not flinch. He wiped the grit away, his breathing heavy and wet. He could feel the blood running down his side, a warm, sticky river beneath his soaked shirt where shrapnel had found a gap in his armor.
Directive: Hold the line, his mind recited, the automatic obedience of the soldier trying to override the reality of the situation.
Directive Failed, the survivor in him whispered back. Update: Run.
The choice was not made with logic. It was made by the lizard brain, the ancient cluster of neurons that demanded life above loyalty. Sathwik turned away from the barrier. He turned his back on John Corvini's order.
He ran.
He sprinted toward the rear of the warehouse, his heavy boots slamming into the wet concrete. He was not moving with the sleek, silent grace of an assassin anymore. He was a tank with a broken tread, plowing through the debris of the failed defense.
The rear exit was blocked. A delivery truck had been backed up against the bay doors, welding the exit shut with mass.
Sathwik skidded to a halt. He looked left. A service corridor. Narrow. Dark.
He threw himself into it just as the front line of the coalition breached the main entrance. He heard their shouts, a cacophony of languages united by bloodlust.
"Corvini! Kill them! Burn it!"
Sathwik moved down the corridor. It was a choke point, cluttered with discarded pallets and rusting machinery. He could hear footsteps behind him, heavy, fast, and numerous. They had seen him.
He reached a junction. A shadow detached itself from the wall.
It was a Triad soldier, young and fast, wielding a long, serrated machete. He did not hesitate. He swung the blade in a vicious, horizontal arc aimed at Sathwik's neck.
Sathwik did not dodge. He did not have the space.
He stepped into the swing.
It was a move of pure, animal desperation. He took the impact on his left forearm. The blade bit deep, shearing through the fabric of his jacket and carving into the muscle. The pain was blinding, a whitehot spike that shot up to his shoulder, but the bone held.
Sathwik roared, a sound that was not human, a sound that belonged in a jungle, not a city.
He grabbed the Triad soldier by the throat with his good hand. He did not squeeze. He drove the man backward, using his mass, his momentum, and his pain as a battering ram. He slammed the soldier into the brick wall with enough force to crack the masonry.
The machete fell.
Sathwik did not stop. He slammed the man again. And again. The soldier's eyes rolled back, his hands clawing weakly at Sathwik's arm. Sathwik brought his knee up, driving it into the man's chest with a sickening crunch of collapsing ribs. He dropped the body and kept moving, blood dripping from his arm, mixing with the mud on the floor.
He emerged into the loading bay. It was a cavernous space, dimly lit by emergency red lights that bathed everything in the color of the violence outside.
There were three of them waiting. Russians. Big men in heavy coats, holding lengths of pipe and chains. They had likely run out of ammo too, or maybe they just wanted to enjoy the work.
They smiled when they saw him. They saw a man bleeding, limping, unarmed. They saw meat.
Sathwik stopped. He looked at the exit, a small personnel door on the far side of the bay, fifty feet away. Fifty feet of kill zone.
He looked at the Russians. They spread out, closing the net.
Sathwik did not assume a fighting stance. He did not put up his fists. He looked around, his eyes frantic, scanning the floor. He saw a heavy, rusting iron hook attached to a length of chain that had fallen from the overhead crane. It weighed at least thirty pounds.
He grabbed the chain. He did not lift it like a weapon; he dragged it up like a burden.
The first Russian charged, swinging a lead pipe.
Sathwik swung the hook.
It was not a technique taught in any dojo. It was physics. He spun his body, letting the centrifugal force turn the iron hook into a meteor.
The hook caught the Russian in the ribs. There was a sound like a wet branch snapping. The man folded in half, screaming, the pipe clattering away.
The other two hesitated. They looked at their fallen comrade, then at the bleeding giant swinging a rusty anchor. The smile vanished from their faces.
Sathwik did not wait for them to regain their courage. He charged.
He swung the chain again, this time overhead. The second Russian raised his arms to block. It was a mistake. The iron hook smashed through his guard, breaking his forearms and slamming into his skull. He went down without a sound.
The third man, the largest of them, tackled Sathwik.
They hit the concrete hard. The impact knocked the wind out of Sathwik. The chain flew from his hand. The Russian was on top of him, smelling of vodka and onions, his hands closing around Sathwik's throat.
Sathwik thrashed, bucking his hips, clawing at the man's face. The Russian's thumbs dug into his windpipe, shutting off the air. Black spots danced in Sathwik's vision. The roar of the rain faded into a high, distant ringing.
Die here, the voice in his head suggested. It's easier. Just stop.
Sathwik looked up into the Russian's eyes. He saw the triumph there. He saw the crow branded on his own shoulder in his mind's eye.
Owned, Asrit had said. Property.
If he died here, he was just broken equipment.
Rage, hot and ugly, flooded his veins. He was not property. He was alive.
Sathwik jammed his thumbs into the Russian's eye sockets.
The man screamed, his grip loosening as he recoiled from the agony. Sathwik did not let go. He pushed deeper, harder, tapping into a reservoir of brutality he did not know he possessed. The Russian rolled off him, clutching his face, howling.
Sathwik scrambled to his feet. He picked up a heavy cinder block from a pile of construction debris.
He stood over the blinded Russian. He did not hesitate. He did not offer mercy. He brought the block down.
Silence returned to the loading bay, broken only by Sathwik's ragged, wheezing breath.
He stood there for a moment, swaying. He looked down at himself. His clothes were shredded. His arm was a ruin of red meat. His knuckles were split. He was covered in blood that was not entirely his own.
He was not the Shield anymore. He was not the stoic guard. He was a monster made of mud and pain.
He limped toward the personnel door. Every step was a negotiation with gravity. He kicked the door open and stumbled out into the alleyway.
The rain washed over him, stinging his wounds.
A van screeched around the corner, its headlights cutting through the deluge. It was battered, dark, and familiar. The side door slid open.
Pranav was in the driver's seat, his face pale, eyes wide with terror as he looked back. Arpika and Sanvi were huddled in the back, looking like ghosts.
Sathwik did not run to the van. He fell toward it.
He collapsed into the open doorway, his legs finally giving out. Sanvi grabbed his vest, hauling him inside with a grunt of effort. He tumbled onto the metal floor of the van, leaving a smear of blood on the ridges.
"Go!" Sanvi screamed at the front. "Go, go, go!"
The van peeled out, tires spinning on the wet asphalt, fishtailing before finding traction and speeding away from the slaughterhouse.
Sathwik lay on his back, staring at the roof of the van. The vibrations of the engine rattled his teeth. He turned his head slowly.
He saw Arpika staring at him. She looked horrified. She was looking at his arm, at the gash where the bone was visible. She was looking at the vacant, dead look in his eyes.
Sathwik tried to speak. He tried to say "Target lost" or "Mission failed."
But all that came out was a low, guttural cough.
He closed his eyes.
The immovable object had been moved. The defensive line had been erased. Marco Reyes had not just attacked a position; he had dismantled the myth of Corvini invincibility. He had proven that even the strongest pieces on the board could be broken if you hit them hard enough.
Sathwik lay in the dark, bleeding out on the floor of a getaway van, knowing that John's map was wrong. There were no lines left to hold. The enemy was not at the gates. The enemy was everywhere.