Chapter3

The icy sting of muddy water still lingered on my fingertips when the floorboards beneath me suddenly erupted into violent tremors.

Plaster rained down from the walls, shattering against the already crushed glass of my pocket watch. The sound bleeding through the window wasn't the evening breeze of San Francisco—it was the deafening roar of heavy diesel engines.

I stood up and moved to the window. Blinding industrial searchlights tore through the night, their harsh beams slashing straight into my thirty-square-meter apartment.

Down below, a bright-yellow bulldozer had its demolition blade raised high.

Victor was leaning against the door of his Porsche, a cigar clamped between his teeth, casually slapping a rolled-up blueprint against his palm.

"Three minutes! Flatten this dump!" His voice blared through a megaphone, dripping with impatient greed. "By tomorrow morning, this lot gets handed over to the Sands Syndicate!"

The Wall Street rumors were true. He’d blown a massive hole in the options market and was desperate to liquidate this old neighborhood to cover his debts.

Whether there was still anyone inside the apartment building didn't factor into his bottom line at all.

Steel tracks chewed up the asphalt. With a screech of grinding metal, the bulldozer slammed into the ground-floor load-bearing wall.

The violent jolt nearly knocked me off my feet. On the desk, perched on the edge of an old military lockbox, several uncollected KIA notices began to slide, inches away from being sucked out the window.

I lunged, snatching the flimsy sheets of paper and crushing them into my palm. My knuckles turned bone-white from the grip.

The suffocating weight that had crushed my chest for years suddenly ripped wide open.

I looked down at the wreckage around me. The mud-soaked journals. The shattered pocket watch. And that brazen machine tearing at the foundation below.

I had thought swallowing every humiliation would atone for the innocent lives lost in the war zone. I had thought that by stripping away my dignity until nothing was left, my soul might find forgiveness.

I was dead wrong.

My retreat had bought no peace. My weakness had simply handed a butcher's knife to the devils, giving them free rein to trample everything of value.

Downstairs, the bulldozer shifted into reverse, gearing up for a second, fatal ram. The load-bearing wall groaned, splintering under the immense pressure.

I turned away from the window and waded through the debris toward the bed. Beneath it lay a dust-covered hidden compartment.

Shoving aside the loose floorboards, a fingerprint scanner pulsed with a faint blue glow. A soft mechanical click echoed, revealing a black titanium satellite terminal.

It was the override key the Joint Chiefs had insisted I keep before I walked away from the war zone.

The searchlight beam swept through the room again, stretching my shadow against the wall. Standing in the dark, my fingers brushed over the worn keypad.

The screen flared to life. Three seconds of encryption handshakes later, the link was live. Through the earpiece, halfway across the globe, I could hear a sharp intake of breath—someone suppressing intense emotion.

Staring out the window at Victor’s smug, illuminated face, I kept my voice dead level: "The war isn't over. Protocol 'Reckoning'—initiate full launch."

There was no wasted breath on the other end. Only the synchronized clatter of keyboards and the sharp, echoing snap of combat boots standing to attention.

I cut the feed and slipped the terminal into my jacket's inner pocket.

The San Francisco sea breeze was as biting as ever tonight. But I was no longer the lowly, bullied analyst they thought I was.

The honor they had desecrated would be paid for in equal measure. If the shield of a guardian could no longer protect my faith, it was time to draw the sword of judgment once more.