Page 62 of The Sterling Acquisition
The first incendiary device went against the main computer core—compact, sophisticated, designed to generate enough heat to melt every circuit and memory chip. The backup systems got similar treatment, device nestling against crucial components like technological parasites waiting to hatch. When they activated, no fragments of Project Tether would survive in SVI’s databases.
The chemical synthesis equipment was next. Each machine got a device placed in its most critical component, the soft click of placement audible over the ambient hum of laboratory systems. When they went off, the entire wing would be reduced to molten slag, the meticulously calibrated equipment becoming puddles of useless metal.
Morrison’s personal research archive was the crown jewel—decades of work that led to Project Tether’s development. Physical notebooks in hermetically sealed cases, redundant backup drives in safes, handwritten notes from early experiments preserved behind glass. The largest device went against the archive’s climate control system, where it would spread fire through the ventilation and consume everything, turning paper to ash and digital media to corrupted plastic.
Forty years of research, reduced to ash in forty minutes. There was something poetic about the symmetry.
Dante was placing the final device when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside—too many footsteps, moving with purpose rather than casual morning routine. The sound pattern indicated at least three people, their gait suggesting security personnel rather than researchers.
He checked his watch. The timers showed six minutes until the first device activated. Plenty of time to leave cleanly, assuming the footsteps belonged to legitimate researchers arriving early.
Though in Dante’s experience, legitimate researchers rarely traveled in groups that large at this hour.
“I know he’s in there,” Duckie Chang’s voice carried through the lab door, tight with desperation and something that might have been fear.
Ah. Duckie had developed a case of buyer’s remorse about their arrangement. Or perhaps gone to Morrison seeking a larger sum. How disappointingly predictable.
His mind rapidly assessed the new variables. Three hostiles minimum. Limited exit options. No specialized equipment beyond what was already in the lab. Timeline now compressed from six minutes to perhaps sixty seconds before confrontation.
The analytical part of his brain calmly catalogued everything in the room that could serve as a weapon—glass beakers, metal stands, chemical compounds, his knife. Twenty years of training provided an automatic threat assessment, transforming ordinary objects into lethal tools through the alchemy of Gensyn violence management protocols.
“You sure this Gensyn guy is dangerous?” Another voice, probably security. Heavy boots, the subtle click of safety mechanisms being disengaged. “He seemed pretty corporate when I saw him around.”
“Morrison says he’s some kind of operative. Says Gensyn doesn’t send regular consultants for vaccine work.” Duckie’s voice was gettingcloser to the door, the nervous pitch revealing how desperately he wanted to believe he made the right choice. “Just... be ready, okay? And remember, Morrison wants him alive if possible.”
Alive if possible. How optimistic of Morrison. Though Dante supposed hope was important when facing the destruction of one’s life’s work.
Unfortunately for Morrison, Dante had no intention of being taken alive. The thought of Orion alone, waiting for rescue that wouldn’t come, filled him with a cold fury that crystallized into absolute certainty. He would not be captured. He would not fail. He had an Omega to extract and a timeline that was rapidly approaching zero hour.
The lab door opened with a hydraulic hiss, and Duckie Chang stepped through, followed by two security guards in tactical gear. Standard SVI security kit—body armor, automatic weapons, and professional training that was adequate for corporate facilities. The guards’ visors reflected the laboratory lighting, making their expressions unreadable behind reinforced plastic.
“Hands up,” the first guard said, his weapon trained on Dante’s center mass. The man’s stance was textbook corporate security—balanced, professional, confident in his gear and training. “Step away from the equipment.”
Dante raised his hands slowly, noting positions and distances. The guards were competent enough to maintain proper spacing—too far apart for him to reach both, close enough to provide mutual support. Duckie was hanging back by the door, clearly hoping to avoid the violence he’d just enabled.
Smart of him. Pity it won’t help.
“Duckie,” Dante said conversationally, as though they were meeting for coffee rather than a potential execution. “I have to say, I’m disappointed.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Duckie replied, his voice shaking. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the lab’s climate control. “The debt collectors were going to break my legs. Morrison offered me a way out.”
“And all you had to do was get me killed.” Dante smiled, the expression carrying no warmth whatsoever. “Though I notice he said alive if possible. What happens when possible becomes impossible?”
Which it was about to become, in approximately thirty seconds.
“Shut up,” the second guard snapped, his finger hovering near the trigger. Standard corporate security, trained to intimidate rather than negotiate. “Move away from the computer.”
Dante took a step back, ostensibly complying while positioning himself next to a rack of laboratory equipment. Glass beakers, metal instruments, chemical containers—an entire arsenal for someone who knew how to improvise. His gaze flicked between objects, assessing weights, potential damage, and reach advantages.
Morrison really should have invested more in proper security protocols. This was embarrassingly easy.
“You know,” he said, reaching casually toward the rack, his movement deliberately slow to avoid triggering an immediate response, “Gensyn training covers a lot of scenarios. Corporate espionage, data extraction, facility infiltration.” His hand closed around a heavy glass flask filled with some kind of acidic solution, the liquid sloshing gently against the sides. “Violence management.”
“I said hands up!” The first guard’s finger moved toward his trigger, the small muscle contraction visible even beneath his gloves.
In that moment, Dante made the transition from corporate operative to something far more dangerous. The decision to kill rather than incapacitate was automatic—these men stood between him and Orion, which made them obstacles to be permanently removed rather than temporarily disabled.
Dante hurled the flask at the man’s face mask, the heavy glass shattering on impact and splashing acid across his visor. The guard screamed and clawed at his helmet, the sound high and panicked as the acid began eating through the protective material. The acrid smell of dissolving plastic filled the air, mixing with the metallic scent of fear pheromones.
