This time,
the number of enforcers dispatched by the High Table
truly exceeded Alex Cross's expectations.
On the surveillance feed,
one bus after another pulled in—
fifteen in total—
stretching from the hotel entrance all the way down the street.
Thirty men per bus.
That was four hundred and fifty enforcers.
Such an enormous deployment…
even Alex was momentarily shaken.
"They've pulled together every remaining enforcement unit in New York…"
He muttered under his breath as he watched the convoy.
He had never expected the High Table to spend this much blood and coin.
But soon…
he realized something was off.
Out of the fifteen buses,
only two opened their doors.
Sixty enforcers disembarked and began forming ranks.
The other thirteen buses…
remained sealed, no movement at all.
Of course, Alex didn't believe the High Table would send empty buses just for show.
Those buses had to be full of armed men.
So why weren't they disembarking?
After a moment's thought,
the answer became clear.
The outcome of this purge didn't matter anymore.
Win or lose,
the High Table had already spent forty-eight hours demonstrating to every killer and syndicate in New York
that they had endless enforcement squads at their disposal.
If they wished,
they could erase any organization that defied their rules.
And if Alex Cross survived—
it would only prove that the Lighthouse could withstand forty-eight hours of the High Table's assault.
But what if there were no time limit?
Those fifteen buses full of killers outside…
were the answer.
This wasn't about annihilation.
It was about a dignified ending for the High Table's campaign.
A way to retreat with face intact.
Of course…
there was more to it.
They were probing him,
to see if the Lighthouse could muster the strength to make them back down.
If not—
then those buses would empty,
and hell itself would pour into the street.
At that thought,
a mocking smile tugged at Alex's lips.
He raised his hand.
In his palm, the crimson badge appeared again.
With a single thought,
ten armored berserkers, each carrying a Gatling gun, materialized before him.
He rose to his feet,
stepped toward them,
and issued a simple command:
"Go downstairs. Stand at the entrance.
If they attack—or if they don't withdraw within one minute… open fire."
Yes.
Alex's plan was just as simple.
If the High Table refused to retreat with dignity—
then he would give them dignity… in fire and blood.
At once, the ten war machines moved.
Thoom.
Thoom.
They rode the elevator down,
emerging at the ground floor.
Inside the buses,
the waiting enforcers stiffened with dread.
They had watched wave after wave go in…
not one had returned.
Then came the sudden order—
all enforcement squads, deploy.
Many of them already sensed doom.
Now, at the hotel gates,
though they were told to remain in the buses,
they could see—
the charred wrecks of six burned-out buses,
the street slick with blood and strewn with corpses.
Their hearts sank to the depths.
Then came the footsteps.
Heavy.
Rhythmic.
Echoing from within the hotel.
And then—
in their horrified gaze…
ten armored giants stepped out, Gatlings in hand.
At once, panic erupted inside the buses.
"Oh fuck! I'm not fighting those monsters!"
"Goddamn it, drive! Drive now!"
"Oh my god, I don't want to die! Please, don't make me die here!"
Chaos. Screams. Desperation.
One after another,
the fifteen buses actually started pulling away.
All of them.
Even the two "empty" buses left with the rest.
Leaving the sixty enforcers already on the street
abandoned where they stood—
shouting, cursing, begging… in vain.
The convoy rumbled off,
halting only once it had retreated several blocks away.
From the penthouse,
Alex watched the monitors,
a cold smile curling on his lips.
Even now,
the High Table wasn't convinced.
They thought he was bluffing—
that the Gatling guns were empty,
that his berserkers were scarecrows.
He glanced at his watch.
Seconds ticked away.
One minute.
Expired.
The ten war machines advanced.
Their barrels spun.
And then—
whrrrrrrr!
BRAAAAAAT!
Flames roared,
and the "weapons of truth" once again unleashed their absolute power.
The street exploded in fire and steel.
The sixty abandoned enforcers were shredded to pieces,
flesh and bone scattering like confetti in a storm.
The bullets didn't stop.
They tore into the pavement,
ripped through buildings,
and even raked across the distant buses.
The rearmost bus split in half under the barrage.
Only then—
when the High Table finally realized the Lighthouse truly could annihilate them all,
did the order come down.
The convoy accelerated,
vanishing into the far horizon.
The ten berserkers ceased fire.
Turned.
And marched back into the hotel.
The 48-hour purge was over.
Alex poured himself a glass of whiskey,
walked to the window,
and gazed out at the setting sun.
He raised his glass,
took a slow sip,
and murmured to himself:
"I've only chipped away at the High Table's iceberg…
but perhaps this is already the prologue.
The end of the old king…
and the rise of the new."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you're interested, you can read advanced chapters:
pat reon .com / Samorash