Chapter 3 - Protocol Zero
The heavy steel bulkheads recessed within the exterior walls of the skyscraper began to groan as hydraulic pistons engaged, sliding downward with the finality of a guillotine blade. Thick, fireproof shutters slammed across every floor-to-ceiling window, plunging the upper executive suites into an eerie, amber-lit twilight powered by independent generators.
"You've locked down the entire perimeter," Victor whispered, his eyes darting frantically toward the reinforced doors. "You've trapped yourself inside with me. And with the fire teams I brought to clean up this building."
"You assume I’m trapped," Ethan said, his voice devoid of emotion. "I’m just keeping the trash from spilling out into the streets."
Marco scooped Clara up into his massive arms, shielding her small face against his broad shoulder. The little girl didn't make a sound; she simply buried her face in his coat, her small hands gripping his lapels.
"I’ll get Elena out of the shaft, boss," Marco said over the low roar of the emergency ventilation fans purging smoke from the lower levels. "The west stairwell is clear of the gas. I have the master override codes."
"Move," Ethan ordered. "If anyone tries to stop you, use lethal force. No hesitation."
As Marco slipped out through the private side corridor, the reinforced mahogany doors of the main office shuddered under a heavy impact from the outside. Wood splintered around the electronic keypad. Someone was trying to breach the room using a high-yield hydraulic battering ram—professional operators, moving with military precision.
Victor straightened his tie, a desperate flicker of arrogance returning to his eyes. "You think your little private army can hold off the strike team I hired from Zurich? They are professionals, Ethan. They don't negotiate, and they don't miss."
Ethan walked back to his desk, picked up the second silver cufflink Clara had given him, and dropped it into his pocket. He then pulled a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol from a concealed compartment beneath the mahogany surface, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency.
"Professional?" Ethan asked coldly. "Professionals study their target. They know his habits, his security layout, his weaknesses."
"And they know you're cornered," Victor sneered.
"No, Victor," Ethan said, stepping smoothly into the shadows near the private wet bar as the main doors finally burst inward in a cloud of dust and splintered timber. "They know you are in here with me."
Three masked operatives clad in tactical black gear poured through the wreckage, assault rifles raised, scanning the room for targets. Their thermal sights swept across the empty space behind the desk, lingering on the warm coffee mug Ethan had left behind.
"Target area secure. Primary objective sighted," the lead operative spoke sharply into his shoulder radio, his voice distorted by a tactical modulator. "Hale is by the window. Securing the package."
Victor opened his mouth to shout a warning, to explain that he was their employer, their handler, the man who wrote their multi-million dollar retainers. But he never got the chance.
Ethan stepped out of the shadows directly behind the lead operative, bringing the heavy barrel of his pistol down hard against the back of the man's reinforced ceramic helmet. The mercenary dropped like a stone, unconscious before he hit the carpet.
The remaining two operatives whirled around, weapons tracking toward Ethan with terrifying speed. But Ethan was already moving, sliding across the polished floor behind the heavy leather sofa as a burst of suppressed gunfire chewed the upholstery into a cloud of white foam and fabric.
"Hold fire! Hold fire!" Victor shrieked, waving his arms frantically. "You idiots, don't shoot toward the desk—"
The lead mercenary on the right didn't hesitate. He adjusted his aim, sweeping the barrel toward the sofa where Ethan had vanished.
Before he could pull the trigger, a sleek black combat knife embedded itself hilt-deep into his tactical vest just below the shoulder plate, piercing the nervous system and dropping him instantly to his knees.
The final operative raised his carbine, tracking the movement in the dim amber light. "Cross! Drop the weapon or the old man dies!"
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Ethan emerged slowly from behind the wet bar, his pistol held steady, aimed squarely between the mercenary's eyes. He didn't look at Victor. He looked only at the man holding the gun.
"He was never part of my plans," Ethan said softly. "Go ahead. Pull the trigger. You'll be doing me a favor on the paperwork."
