The goons moved like a well-oiled machine.
Thirty men split into squads, their voices low but sharp, moving with practiced synchronicity—covering each other's blind spots, guarding every entrance, watching every corridor.
They communicated with hand signals, radio whispers, and precise patrol rotations.
They thought they had the advantage. Numbers, teamwork, territory.
They were wrong.
Phase 1 — The Ambush
Aiden's eyes flicked over the layout—he wasn't just hunting bodies; he was dismantling a system.
In the shadowed corner of the South Wing, three men formed a triangle, backs to one another, guns sweeping every angle.
He tossed a rock, sharp and small.
The nearest head snapped towards the sound.
Snap.
Aiden's combat knife sliced through the first neck before the second could react.
A flash of movement—Aiden dove low, rolling under the third's swing, knocking the barrel aside, then drove the knife deep into his ribs.
Three down before the alarm.
Phase 2 — Divide and Conquer
The squad broke apart, radio crackling:
"East corridor, two moving north. I've got the blind spot."
"South wing, sounds of a scuffle. Reinforcements inbound."
Aiden listened, waited.
Two men advanced shoulder to shoulder, rifles steady.
He used their rhythm—timed their steps—and threw a grenade low between them.
They exploded in a burst of flame and smoke.
When the smoke cleared, he was already on the move.
Phase 3 — The Pinch
The goons tried to trap him.
One squad blocked the stairwell; another barred the catwalk.
They shouted tactical orders:
"Hold the line. No one slips through!"
Aiden slid along the shadows, his breath steady, his mind razor sharp.
He used the walls, the crates, the darkness.
A swift kick sent a rifle flying from a goon's grip.
Another got a blow to the jaw, then a brutal elbow to the throat.
When one fired, Aiden caught the barrel, twisted, and slammed the man's head into a steel beam.
Phase 4 — Surgical Strikes
The goons regrouped in the control room—fortress of surveillance and radios.
Four men surrounded a console, their backs to the doorway.
Aiden's entrance was silent.
He took them down with calculated violence:
A garrote for one, cutting off his breath like a shadow choking light.
A shot to the knee for the second—crippling but silent.
A crushing headbutt followed by a knife to the throat for the third.
The last raised a pistol—Aiden disarmed him with a swift twist, then crushed his hand with the butt of his own gun.
No screams.
No mercy.
Phase 5 — Final Sweep
Only a handful remained, scattered and frantic.
They tried to trap him in the loading bay.
Two men fired together.
Bullets ripped past Aiden's shoulders. He dropped low, rolling behind a stack of pallets.
He popped up and threw a smoke grenade.
Chaos exploded.
Amid the haze, he stabbed one man in the side and shot the other through the forehead.
Final Phase — Waiting for Dee
The warehouse lay in ruins.
Bodies littered every corner.
Thirty goons died.
And still, no Dee.
Aiden wiped the sweat and blood from his brow.
His heart throbbed with cold fury.
This wasn't over.