Chapter 708
He stood in the pouring rain, staring at the glass building. General Thorne’s voice barked threats of immediate airstrikes through the secondary comms channel, but Dallas ignored the static. Shields ran up beside him, desperately grabbing his arm and pleading for a tactical delay to confirm the thermal scans. Dallas shoved him away. His face was a mask of cold, consuming void. Slowly, he began to lower his right hand to order the strike.
A deafening scream of a motorcycle engine tore through the plaza.
Dallas froze.
The black Ducati smashed through the wooden police barricades without slowing. It tore straight into the crossfire zone between the Koch PMCs and the Citadel guards, then the rider slammed on the brakes. The heavy bike hydroplaned on the wet marble, sliding sideways before crashing hard to the ground.
Eliza rolled across the wet pavement. Her red velvet dress was soaked and torn. She pushed herself up onto her knees, gasping for air, and looked up at Dallas.
She screamed with everything she had left.
“Stop! It’s a trap! I’m here!”
Dallas’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard it felt as though his chest were cracking open. The apocalyptic rage vanished, replaced by a desperate, overwhelming shock.
“Cease fire!” he roared.
He dropped his rifle and sprinted across the plaza. He fell to his knees in the puddles, grabbed Eliza, and hauled her into his chest. He didn’t feel the agonizing pain in his right hand — the hand he had mangled punching the titanium safe room door. His torn, bloodied knuckles smeared crimson across the back of her wet dress as his massive arms crushed her against him. His shaking, bleeding hands buried themselves in her wet hair, feeling the heat of her skin, confirming she was real. His eyes, usually so cold and controlled, burned red with unshed tears.
Eliza slumped against his broad chest and buried her face in his neck, her entire body shaking as the adrenaline finally crashed.
The war was over.
Inside the Citadel, the Sterling commander collapsed into a chair and wiped the sweat from his face. The NATO strike forces holding offshore stood down. Miles away, Gideon stumbled out of the chalet clutching his bleeding head, stared at the empty driveway, and screamed — smashing his useless radio against the rocks. His perfect trap was destroyed.
Back in the plaza, Dallas pulled back just enough to look at Eliza’s face.
He saw the bruises forming on her neck. The cold, absolute logic of the CEO returned to his eyes, but it was laced with pure murder.
He stood up, pulling Eliza behind his back, shielding her from the world. He tapped his comms.
“Shields,” Dallas ordered, his voice a freezing void. “Lock down the Geneva borders. Shift from defense to Global Manhunt. I want Gideon Sterling’s head.”
As Dallas issued the kill order, Eliza’s earring buzzed one final time. A text message from The Old Man scrolled across the tiny internal display.
“Mrs. Koch. Rescue fees are steep. Prepare for the political cost.”
Eliza stared at the dark Citadel and said nothing.
The rain had stopped, but the plaza remained slick with blood and engine oil.
.
.
.