Chapter 19 - The Puppet Master Unmasked
Gunfire erupted inside the concrete tunnel, the deafening cracks echoing like thunderclaps.
Arthur threw himself behind a heavy steel support pillar as high-caliber rounds chipped chunks of concrete near his head.
He returned fire with three disciplined shots, dropping the first gunman before the man could clear his weapon.
The remaining two mercenaries advanced in coordinated flanking maneuvers, their laser sights cutting through the haze.
Arthur checked his magazine: four rounds left.
He couldn't engage them in a direct firefight; he was outgunned, wounded, and running out of time before the charges exploded above.
He pulled a smoke grenade from his tactical belt—salvaged from his guard's pouch—pulled the pin, and rolled it across the platform.
A thick, blinding cloud of grey chemical fog bloomed across the tracks.
Shouts in Russian broke out through the smoke as the gunmen hesitated, sweeping their barrels blindly.
Arthur slipped off his boots, moving across the rusted rails with ghost-like silence.
He closed the distance on the second mercenary from behind, driving his tactical blade beneath the edge of the man’s Kevlar vest.
The soldier crumpled without a sound.
The third gunman turned at the noise, spraying a burst of automatic fire into the smoke.
Arthur fired two rounds through the muzzle flash, hitting the shooter square in the chest.
The tunnel fell into a ringing, terrifying silence, broken only by the hum of the rail cart engine.
Arthur stepped onto the platform, bleeding from a graze across his left forearm.
Evelyn stood beside the cart, her weapon lowered, looking at him with something resembling grudging respect.
"You fight better than an aristocrat," she admitted, her breath clouding in the freezing damp air.
"My father taught me how to survive," Arthur said, panting, his gun aimed directly between her eyes. "Before your people killed him."
Evelyn scoffed, shaking her head slowly.
"We didn't kill your father, Arthur."
Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. "Don't lie to me."
"Your father found these exact files six years ago," Evelyn said, pointing at the leather satchel. "He was on his way to the Federal Prosecutor’s office when his private jet lost hydraulic pressure over the Atlantic."
Arthur felt his blood turn to ice. "Who sabotaged the plane?"
"The same person who tampered with Eleanor's IV drip tonight," Evelyn said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "The person who runs the Hawthorne board while you play philanthropist."
The realization struck Arthur like a physical blow.
May you like
"Uncle Julian," Arthur whispered.
"Not Julian," Evelyn said, glancing toward the shadows behind him. "Julian was just the bagman."
