Arthur and Jackie exchanged a glance and pulled their truck to the very end of the convoy.
Meanwhile, on the second basement level of the Diman Slaughterhouse.
The scene there was a stark contrast to the filth outside—white floors and walls gleamed under cold fluorescent lights, while spotless glass panels made the place unnaturally bright.
This was the Biotechnica-backed secret laboratory. But instead of silence, the space now echoed with agitation.
A high-tech door stood before them, its sharp, angular lines centered around a red dot that flashed insistently.
Red meant deadlock—a lockdown protocol.
But this wasn't an emergency. A towering figure was pounding at the door in fury.
He looked jarringly out of place in the pristine lab, especially with his arms—grotesque cyberware fitted with three joints apiece.
As he hammered against the door with those monstrous limbs, he shouted curses:
"You little bastard! You better not come out alive, or I'll rip your head off with my bare hands!"
Behind him stood a tall, gaunt man in a white coat, holding a terminal. The glow of its display reflected coldly in his eyes.
The standoff dragged on until a young man hurried over, his face hidden behind a mask. Only his eyes betrayed his youth.
"Doctor, 337 is dead. His neural activity spiked past the limit and quickly necrotized."
The man in the coat set his device aside. His expression faltered, as though struggling to recall what the assistant meant.
"Which product was administered to 337?"
"The one that activates the neural cell division program."
The young man answered without hesitation.
The reminder brought clarity, and the doctor nodded.
"You activated his nervous system first, correct?"
"Yes. After activation, we applied the Pain Editor—but the drug's effects diverged significantly from projections."
The man nodded again, then patted the burly figure still battering the door.
"Joseph, why hasn't the man you sent for breaching tools returned yet?"
The brute finally stopped his futile assault—the door bore only shallow marks despite all his pounding.
"Dr. Bain, this door's security level is too high. Breaking it open by force would take forever, so I sent men to bring in some hackers."
"I don't care how you do it. Just handle it. Once you drag that little animal out, deliver it to Lab Three."
With an impatient wave, the middle-aged man—Bain—turned and left.
The pounding resumed behind him.
Just one door away, inside the room, a girl huddled against the wall.
Pulling her ear away from the door, she trembled at the vibrations running through her body.
Her face was streaked with endless tears. Trapped in that cramped cell, she had nowhere to run.
Her netrunning pod was gone. If she hadn't hidden an external data cable and hacked the door lock, she'd already be strapped to an operating table.
Her shoulders shook as she buried her face in her knees.
When the door finally opened, she would picture her father's face one last time… then kill herself.
Outside, the curses kept coming.
"Don't even think about suicide, bitch! Or I'll dump your corpse in some alley in Kabuki!"
Jessica flinched but didn't falter. She was about to become a live test subject—why care what happened afterward?
...
Above the lab, in the main hall.
Each vehicle was stopped and checked, and workers hauled away the "cargo" inside.
The convoy moved steadily, nearly halfway through already.
Arthur and Jackie weren't about to wait for inspection. They weren't locals, and they weren't hauling "cargo." They'd be exposed instantly.
"It's time. We ram that turret with the truck, then storm straight in."
Arthur gauged the distance. Acting here would give the turret no time to react, and the truck's momentum would ensure enough force.
Jackie didn't hesitate. As the line advanced, he yanked the wheel, swung the truck out of the convoy, and floored it.
The civilian box truck roared as it thundered straight toward the turret.
The sudden move froze everyone in shock. Busy or idle, all stared blankly at the sight.
Even without enough room to build full speed, the reckless charge still pushed past eighty miles an hour.
Inside, Arthur's eyes locked onto the turret. The instant it lifted its head and its targeting laser fixed on the truck, Arthur roared:
"Jump!"
The turret's thunderous blast shook the air.
Arthur and Jackie rolled hard, dissipating the impact, then bolted in the opposite direction.
The empty truck slammed into the turret's barrel just as a shell fired, detonating at the front.
The shell punched through the engine block, instantly igniting the methanol-2 tank.
The explosion engulfed the turret, and the wreckage's momentum tore it from its base, exposing the shells stored beneath the floor.
Two seconds later, before Arthur and Jackie had even covered ten meters, the stockpile erupted in a chain detonation.
The blast wave hurled them skyward along with a section of the floor itself.
The concrete slab tore upward like a page, bound by rebar, before crashing back down with crushing force.
Only because the shells were stored underground did the slab shield them from shrapnel—indirectly saving their lives.
Arthur felt a crushing ache in his back and chest. He spat blood, easing the pressure slightly.
His back burned from the blast, while his chest ached from smashing into the ground.
Jackie, larger and tougher, was in better shape. He hauled Arthur to his feet.
"You good?"
"Not too bad." Arthur spat more blood.
"Damn, that was close."
Neither of them had expected such a massive explosion—they'd only meant to knock the turret over.
Most of the blast had been absorbed by the ground, but nearby vehicles were tossed aside, throwing the hall into chaos.
The inspection team stood frozen, staring at the flames consuming the turret.
By the time their leader shouted, "Enemy attack!" Arthur had already been pulled to his feet by Jackie.
Using the scattered cars as cover, the two opened fire.
Arthur popped up and dropped a man with a machine gun. The sedan shielding him was already riddled with holes.
He checked Jackie's position—still safe, since most of the enemy fire was focused on him.
Arthur pressed against the engine block—the thickest steel on the car, the best cover he had.
He memorized enemy positions, ducked to reload, then tore off the rearview mirror.
Recalling their locations, he hurled it hard and shouted:
"Jackie, bomb!"
The effect was immediate. Enemy fire faltered, reduced to a few scattered shots.
Arthur seized the chance, lunging for the next vehicle—a Badlands off-road truck, flipped by the earlier blast.
It made perfect cover.
It also offered another advantage: though farther from Jackie, their firing angles were now wider.
Arthur peeked out and spotted a gunman aiming at Jackie, his back exposed.
He took aim in an instant and fired.
The bullet punched through the man's back.
...
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