Chapter Seventeen

  "Are you insane?!" Corey stared at Chelsea as though she'd just escaped from an asylum.

  "We have to go in. He's in there, Corey," Chelsea said, her voice firm.

  "Yeah, and so are a bunch of Red Hand gang members! This is one of their hidden bases in the city! I didn't even know this was here. And you want to raid it?! Again, I ask, are you out of your fucking mind?"

  Chelsea blew out a breath, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. The cool night air did little to calm her racing thoughts. She'd been tracking this mystery man for days, and now he was finally within her grasp. She couldn't let this opportunity slip away.

  "Do you want to lose this to SpecOps? The chief is already one phone call away. He put a clock on me, Core. I don't have much of a choice."

  Corey rubbed his face, letting out an explosive sigh. The harsh lines around his eyes deepened, the product of twenty-plus years on the force. "At least let us get backup."

  Chelsea snorted. "All we'll get is corrupt uni's who'll turn around and support the Red Hand. This is our chance to nail a few of them. We have cause, there were people in the back of that van."

  Corey chewed on his cheek, his gaze flicking nervously toward the parking garage. Shadows played across the concrete structure, giving it an ominous appearance in the dimly lit night. "We could just let this play out, you know. That guy's going to rain hellfire and brimstone in there. I doubt any of them will survive."

  "As much as the Red Hand deserves that, we also have to catch him. He's not expecting us. This is our best chance."

  Corey shook his head, tapping his finger on the steering wheel. The rhythmic sound filled the car as he weighed their options. "It's a bad idea, Chelsea. That man is a cut above us. We couldn't force him to do jack shit, even if we wanted to."

  "That's why I brought these." Chelsea reached into her coat and produced a pair of handcuffs. The metal glowed softly with an orange light that pulsed from runes engraved along its surface. The cuffs radiated a palpable pressure.

  "Are those…?"

  Chelsea grinned. "Specially forged svartal handcuffs, strengthened with an Icon and a spiritual skill. They even resize themselves to fit."

  Corey let out a low whistle, leaning back in his seat. "Do they do what I think they do?"

  "If you mean completely cut off someone from all their power, including Icon and spirit? Then yes."

  "I thought only SpecOps had those. Where the hell did you get them?"

  "A girl never kisses and tells," Chelsea said coyly.

  Corey studied her, his eyes narrowing. The streetlight caught the gray in his hair, making it shine silver. "You're a damn menace, you know that? Fine. But you've got another problem."

  "Oh? What's that?"

  He gestured toward the garage. "How do you expect to get them on him? I very much doubt that guy is going to cuff up without a fight."

  "That's why I got this." Chelsea revealed a sleek, black revolver, its surface emblazoned with glowing yellow runes.

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  Corey's eyebrows shot up. "A paralysis enchantment?"

  "Plus a little extra. It's designed to resist skills and item effects."

  "Seriously, how are you getting these items? That's gotta be epic rank, at the very least."

  "A girl—"

  "Don't you start with that again. Spill, Chelsea."

  She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I have a friend in SpecOps requisitions, okay? Maybe more than a friend sometimes."

  "Fucking women," Corey muttered, shaking his head.

  Chelsea glared at him, but he shrugged unapologetically. The lines around his mouth deepened with his grimace. "I can retire anytime, and I'm too old to give a damn what people think about me. Anyway, I guess this could work. Maybe. If you're really fucking lucky."

  "We have to try, Corey."

  He sighed, staring out at the moonlight casting ominous shadows over the garage. "Yeah, I suppose we do. Alright, let's fucking go before I lose my nerve."

  ---

  Behind the illusory wall, Ambrose found a vastly different space from the parking garage he had entered. Smooth wooden floors replaced black pavement, and a sprawling network of hallways and rooms stretched before him.

  The air was stifling, the heat oppressive even with his stats. A rancid stench, an unholy mixture of weed, bleach, and bug spray, assaulted his senses. Gang signs adorned the walls: red hands, skulls marked with bloody palms, and a stylized 'H' smeared across nearly every surface.

  The van was nowhere in sight. Ambrose's lips twitched downward as he considered the layout. The space wasn't large enough to conceal the vehicle.

  The van went somewhere else, he thought, narrowing his eye. The enchantment likely transported individuals based on the keys they carried.

  It made sense, but he had no way to confirm it yet.

  He moved forward, Akaroth ready in his hand. The dragon-axe felt alive in his grip, its weight perfectly balanced. The weapon had become an extension of himself, responding to his thoughts almost before they fully formed.

  Careful, hatchling, the dragon-axe whispered in his mind. I sense multiple souls ahead. Some are... twisted.

  Ambrose nodded. "Twisted how?"

  Corruption. Fear. Some form of binding that isn't physical.

  That matched what he'd seen at the other locations. The Red Hand didn't just employ gangs; they practiced some form of spiritual control over their members.

  It didn't take long to encounter the first group of foes. A cluster of Red Hand members lounged in a room, some high as kites, others glued to a flickering TV screen.

  "What the fuck?!" one of them shouted, leaping to his feet and drawing a rune-etched weapon.

  The man fired, bullets streaking toward Ambrose in a burst of fiery light. Ambrose opened a small portal, redirecting the bullets into the shooter's face. The man's head exploded in a spray of bone, brain, and blood, coating the wall behind him in crimson splatter.

  Ambrose was already moving, Akaroth flashing as arcs of lightning danced along its edge. The gang members, sluggish and disoriented from their high, barely had time to react. He cut through them with ruthless precision, their screams echoing off the walls.

  [Hellfire Manipulation] allowed him to create cutting edges that bisected torsos and severed heads with casual efficiency. One man fell to his knees, watching in horror as his arm, still clutching a gun, dropped to the floor beside him. He didn't have time to scream before a second portal opened his throat.

  Another gangster tried to run, only to find his legs suddenly separated from his body. He collapsed, crawling through his own entrails as Ambrose stepped over him without a second glance.

  A third attempted to use some form of fire skill, orange flames gathering in his palms. Ambrose cut the man's hands off at the wrists, then drove Akaroth through his sternum. The axe crackled with lightning as it punched through the man's back, frying his internal organs in the process.

  By the time the last body hit the floor, the room was silent save for the wet sounds of blood dripping from walls and furniture. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the rancid air, creating a nauseating cocktail of odors. None of it touched him. Years of violence had numbed him to such things.

  Not high-level opponents, but they weren't street thugs either. He couldn't help but notice that the Red Hand members here were stronger than at the previous locations. Still, they died just as easily.

  He stepped over the carnage, following the sound of voices down a narrow hallway. It opened into a larger dining area, where a gray-haired woman in black leather sat sipping coffee.

  Her storm-gray eyes were sharp and calculating, her posture relaxed but poised, like a coiled snake ready to strike. Age had etched faint wrinkles into her face, but they only added to her fierce beauty.

  "I've heard about you," she said slowly, her eyes sweeping over him.

  She showed no fear, no anxiety. That gave Ambrose pause. Truly dangerous people didn't wear their fear—they controlled it, wielded it as a tool. This woman was the picture of composure.

  He attempted [Retribution's Gaze], but a notification flashed in his mind:

  [This user is using an item to block analyze skills.]

  "Yeah, I'm not a big fan of prying eyes," she said, taking another sip of her coffee. "Name's Lillian. I run security for this sector. I'd offer you coffee, but I'm guessing you didn't come for the hospitality."

  She set her cup down with deliberate slowness. The ceramic made no sound as it touched the table. The silence between them stretched, heavy with tension.

  She was almost certainly an enemy. Ambrose's instincts screamed at him to attack, but he tempered them. For now, he would gather information. The mystery woman could wait to be dealt with.

  "Who runs the operation?" he asked.

  "You've been tearing through our outposts for days, and you don't even know who you're hunting?" Lillian laughed, the sound oddly melodic despite the circumstances. "Vorshawn Red. The Shadow Dealer. He's the man you want."

  She leaned forward, her eyes glinting. "But trust me when I say you don't want to find him. I've seen what happens to those who cross the Red Hand. It's never pretty."

  "I'm not concerned."

  "No?" Lillian tilted her head. "You should be. The higher-ups already know you're coming. They're prepared."

  A chill ran down Ambrose's spine. Something wasn't right. This woman was too calm, too willing to offer information.

  "You're stalling," he realized aloud.

  Lillian's smile widened. "Caught that, did you? Shame. I was hoping to keep you occupied a bit longer."

  With that, she flicked her wrist. A small device clattered across the table, coming to rest at its edge. It began to pulse with an ominous red light.

  "Backup arrives in three minutes," she said, rising to her feet. "I suggest you run. Or don't. Makes no difference to me."

  She believes what she's saying, hatchling, Akaroth warned. But she's underestimating us. Her confidence comes from ignorance.

  The mystery woman could wait to be dealt with. There were other priorities now.

  Ambrose raised Akaroth, the axe humming with anticipation. "You first."