Chapter 5 - Blood on the Iron
The six gunmen raised their rifles, but Vance was already moving. He didn't run away from the firing line; he ran directly toward it. It was a suicide tactic that defied every human instinct, which was exactly why it worked.
Vance slid across the oil-slicked concrete floor just as the bay erupted in deafening gunfire. Bullets tore the air where his chest had been a millisecond prior. As he slid, he drew his pistol, firing three rapid shots. Three Hounds dropped instantly, shot perfectly in the gaps of their body armor.
Vance sprang to his feet, crashing into the fourth man before the guard could re-aim. Vance drove his elbow into the man’s throat, grabbing the barrel of the guard's rifle and twisting it violently to the side as the fifth man fired, inadvertently shooting his own comrade.
In the chaos, Vance drew his karambit. The curved blade flashed in the dim light. In two fluid, brutal motions, he incapacitated the remaining two guards. The entire engagement lasted less than six seconds. The bay was suddenly silent again, save for the metallic ringing in everyone's ears.
Silas stared at the bodies of his men, his sadistic grin vanishing, replaced by a look of genuine shock. He had heard the stories of the San Lorenzo Ghost, but seeing it in person was a different reality entirely.
Vance stood slowly, his breathing completely steady. He didn't even look at the fallen men. His eyes were locked entirely on Silas. He flicked the blood off his blade with a sharp snap of his wrist.
"Your move," Vance whispered.
Silas roared, a guttural sound of pure rage, and charged. For a man of his immense size, he moved with terrifying speed. He swung a rusted iron pipe he had picked from the floor, aiming directly for Vance’s skull.
Vance ducked under the heavy swing, the air rushing over his hair as the pipe sailed past. He slashed upward with the karambit, aiming for Silas’s forearm, but the enforcer was wearing thick leather and kevlar mesh beneath his coat. The blade sparked against the armor.
Silas backhanded Vance with his massive, scarred fist. The blow connected with Vance’s jaw, sending him flying backward. Vance crashed into a tool bench, splintering the wood, his vision swimming in a dizzying blur of stars.
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"You're just a washed-up merc!" Silas spat, advancing slowly, raising the iron pipe for a crushing downward strike. "You died in the jungle, Vance! You just didn't have the decency to lie down!"
Vance tasted blood. He looked up, seeing the iron pipe descending.
