Page 93 of Knuckles & Knives
At 7:23 AM, Marcus picks up a brief electronic pulse from the building’s security system, nothing more than a flicker but enough to confirm that someone has bypassed the outer perimeter.
“He’s in,” Marcus reports.
At 8:45 AM, thermal imaging shows a single heat signature moving through the building’s upper floors with careful precision.
“Still moving,” Dom mutters, his relief evident.
At 9:17 AM, the heat signature disappears from our sensors entirely.
“Did he find a dead zone?” Kieran asks, but his voice carries the tension we’re all feeling.
“Possible,” Marcus replies. “The building has several areas with natural sensor interference.”
At 10:33 AM, Marcus’s equipment detects a massive spike in encrypted communications from the building—multiple signals,high-priority transmissions, the kind of traffic that suggests major operations being coordinated.
“That’s not reconnaissance,” Dom says grimly. “That’s active engagement.”
At 11:02 AM, police scanners report explosions in the financial district, followed by reports of structural damage to the Blackwood building.
“Shit,” I breathe, understanding immediately what’s happened. “They detected him. It’s not reconnaissance anymore. It’s combat.”
The next hour passes in agonizing silence. No thermal signatures, no electronic communications, no police reports. Just the terrible quiet that means either complete success or complete disaster.
This has become retaliation, but will it cost us one of our own?
He never should’ve gone alone. I shouldn’t have let him. I should’ve insisted…
At 12:18 PM, exactly six hours after he left, the safe house door opens, and Axel stumbles inside.
He’s alive, barely. Blood soaks through his tactical gear from multiple wounds, his left arm hangs at an unnatural angle, and there’s a burn pattern across his chest that suggests he was hit by some kind of energy weapon. But his eyes—those wild, amber-flecked eyes—burn with the intensity of someone who’s discovered truth worth dying for.
“Jesus Christ,” Dom breathes, moving to support Axel’s weight as he collapses against the doorframe. Dom’s jaw clenches like he’s the one bleeding.
Marcus mutters a helpless, frustrated curse.
Keiran shakes his head. “We should’ve stopped him.”
“Medical kit,” I order Marcus, my own hands already assessing injuries with professional efficiency. “Dom, get him to the couch. Kieran, check for pursuit.”
“I’m fine,” Axel protests weakly, then immediately proves himself wrong by coughing up blood.
“You’re not fine,” I snap, my voice sharper than intended. “You’re half-dead and probably in shock.”
“Worth it,” he gasps, reaching into his tactical vest with trembling fingers. “Got what we needed. Got everything.”
He produces a data drive and a collection of photographs, both stained with his blood but intact. “The puppet master,” he whispers. “It’s not who we thought.”
I take the evidence with hands that shake only slightly, my mind already racing through implications. But my eyes keep returning to Axel’s injuries, to the way his breathing sounds labored and painful.
“Who?” I ask, though part of me is more concerned with keeping him conscious than gathering intelligence.
“Your father’s old partner,” Axel manages before his eyes flutter closed.
“Alexander Cross?” I shake my head. “That’s not possible. He died in a warehouse fire two years before my father was murdered?”
I see the funeral again. The closed casket.
The perfect performance. The polished lie.
