Page 130 of The Sterling Acquisition
Get up,his mind commanded.Move. Fight.
His body ignored him.
“No!” Orion’s shouted, his voice raw with fury and desperation. “Get your fucking hands off me!”
Dante forced his eyes open just in time to see two Gensyn regulators wrestling Orion away from his body. His fierce little hurricane was fighting like a wildcat—elbows, knees, teeth, anything he could use as aweapon—but they had zip-ties and numbers and the clinical efficiency that came with corporate training.
“Target secured,” one of them reported into his radio, ducking a wild swing from Orion’s bound hands. “Asset is... uncooperative.”
Asset.The word hit Dante like another bullet. They were talking about Orion like he was equipment to be retrieved. Corporate property to be processed and filed away in some Gensyn laboratory.
One of the regulators holding Orion—a severe woman with dead eyes that Dante recognized as Senior Operative Stone—drew a tranquilizer gun and aimed it at Orion’s neck.
“Subject will comply or face immediate sedation,” she announced in that flat corporate tone that reduced human dignity to a policy violation. “Corporate requires the asset undamaged for comprehensive testing.”
Orion went still, but his eyes—Christ, his eyes were pure molten rage. “Touch me and I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth.”
Stone’s mouth twitched in what might have been amusement.
Two medics appeared beside Dante, efficient hands checking his pulse, shining lights in his eyes. One of them started an IV while the other applied pressure to his chest wound.
“BP dropping fast,” the first medic muttered. “Hypovolemic shock, imminent respiratory failure. We need to move now if we want him alive for questioning.”
The IV line burned as cold flooded his system—a cocktail of stimulants and coagulants designed to keep corporate assets functional under extreme duress that Dante had only had the displeasure of needing once before in his career. C-17, the field medics called it—a proprietary Gensyn compound that forced oxygen absorption while stimulating adrenaline production. Battlefield medicine at its most brutal and effective.
Dante felt his vision sharpen, the gray haze receding as artificial adrenaline hit his bloodstream. The pain was still there—a constant fire in his chest—but suddenly it seemed manageable. Distant. Like it was happening to someone else. His blood pressure stabilized as nanoclotting agents sealed the worst of the internal bleeding, buying him perhaps thirty minutes of functional time before complete system failure.
Corporate enhancement protocols,he realized through the chemical clarity.They’re turning me into a functional asset one last time.
Dante tried again to move as the medics rushed off to check for vitals on their fallen comrades and got his other arm under him this time. The IV cocktail was hitting his system harder now, artificial strength flooding his muscles even as his chest burned with each breath. He managed to rise to one knee, the world tilting as blood loss competed with chemical enhancement.
Stone noticed the movement and stepped toward him, tranquilizer gun shifting to track his position. “Ashford is becoming mobile. Recommend immediate—”
Dante’s hand found the tactical knife on the nearest fallen SVI operative. Corporate training took over—weight, balance, distance. All calculated in the space between heartbeats.
The blade took Stone in the thigh, severing the femoral artery with surgical precision.
She went down hard, blood pumping between her fingers as she tried to apply pressure. The other regulators spun toward him, but Dante was already moving, rolling behind cover as their weapons tracked him.
The gunfire started—controlled bursts meant to disable rather than kill. They still needed him alive for questioning. Still needed to understand how their perfect operative hadgone so rogue.
Dante pressed himself against the twisted metal of a burned-out car, breathing hard. The stimulants were keeping him functional, but he could feel his strength bleeding away with every heartbeat. The C-17 was metabolizing too quickly, his damaged system burning through it at triple the normal rate. Maybe three minutes of useful consciousness before total collapse. Not enough time to—
Dante’s blood went cold as a whooping shout cut through the valley like something primal and enraged.
Three figures came over the sniper ridge like demons from hell, moving with the terrifying coordination of pack hunters. The lead figure wore a crude metal mask over half his face, the exposed skin revealing a smattering of freckles. Behind him, two others flanked wide, all of them armed with vicious clawed gloves that could tear a man’s throat out.
Berserkers.
Fuck.
The Gensyn regulators reacted as trained—immediate threat assessment, tactical repositioning, controlled fire. But Berserkers didn’t follow corporate rules of engagement. They moved like violent lightning, all fury and momentum and absolute disregard for personal safety.
The first regulator went down screaming as clawed gloves opened his throat. The second managed to get off three shots before the masked leader tackled him.
Dante forced himself to his feet, every movement sending white-hot agony through his chest. His body temperature was dropping rapidly, another sign of accelerating shock despite the chemical intervention. But Orion was still zip-tied and helpless, and now there were three Berserkers to contend with.
Not happening. Not fucking happening.
