Iron Hoof's trembling fingers dialed Frank Morrison's number, sweat pouring down his face despite the SUV's air conditioning. The phone rang three times before Frank's gruff voice answered."Volkov?Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to reach you for—""Frank, listen carefully," Iron Hoof interrupted, his voice carefully modulated to sound urgent but controlled. "I've got a way out. A clean route that Steel's men haven't locked down yet."In the front seat, Marcus's dragon eyes glowed faintly, listening to every word through the speakerphone."Out?" Frank's suspicion was palpable. "Every exit is crawling with his people. The airport, the docks, the highways—all blocked. How the hell do you have a clean route?""Because I'm an intelligence broker, you idiot!" Iron Hoof snapped, his desperation lending authenticity to the lie. "I've got connections you don't. A forest route near the northern perimeter, leads to a private airstrip across the state line. But we need to move NOW

Frank Morrison stood with his hands raised, his assault rifle lying useless in the dirt, surrounded by Marcus Steel and his men. The forest clearing had become a killing ground—six of his squadmates already dead, the rest wounded or terrified.But Frank hadn't survived two decades as a mercenary by giving up easily.His eyes darted to the tactical vest of a fallen comrade three feet away. Inside that vest was a smoke grenade—standard issue for Crimson Gorge operations. And holstered at his ankle, hidden beneath his pant leg, was a backup pistol that Marcus's men hadn't found during their cursory weapon check.One chance, Frank thought desperately. Get the grenade, create chaos, grab Steel as a hostage, force them to let us leave.It was insane. It was suicidal. But it was the only option left."You know what's funny?" Marcus said, walking slowly toward the surrendered mercenaries, his dragon aura still flickering around him like ghostly fire. "You people thought you were professionals

Eric Thompson lay pinned beneath Dominic Martinez's boot, his spine aching from the pressure, his mind completely shattered. Ten feet away, Frank Morrison's corpse sprawled in the dirt, his skull caved in beyond recognition, blood pooling beneath what was left of his head.Eric had seen death before. He'd killed men himself during his seven years with Blood Canyon. But this—this casual, overwhelming brutality—had broken something fundamental in his psyche.Marcus Steel walked toward him slowly, each step deliberate, his dragon aura finally faded but his presence still overwhelming. Those eyes—even returned to their normal appearance—carried something ancient and terrifying."Eric Thompson," Marcus said, his voice utterly calm. "Former Marine, dishonorable discharge for excessive force, recruited by Blood Canyon six years ago. Specialty: close-quarters combat and interrogation."Eric's blood ran cold. "How do you know—""I know everything about you," Marcus interrupted. "Including your

Titan Group Headquarters - Downtown Grayson City - 2:47 PMStanislaus Potter strode through Titan Group's marble lobby like a conquering general, six bodyguards flanking him in perfect formation. At sixty-two, the patriarch of the Potter family cut an imposing figure—tall, broad-shouldered, with silver hair swept back from a face carved from granite and eyes that had witnessed four decades of ruthless business warfare.Golden Eagle Group controlled half of Five-River Province's real estate and construction. When Stanislaus Potter spoke, politicians listened, competitors fled, and lesser businessmen trembled.Today, he'd come to deliver a simple message to Owen Cooper, the so-called "richest man in Grayson City": withdraw all investments from Hartford Group, or watch them burn when the Potter family crushed them into dust.But the reception he received was... insulting.Three senior executives—nervous men in expensive suits—greeted him in the executive conference room. No Owen Cooper.

Director Gregory Walsh stared at Marcus Steel sitting in the chairman's seat, his mind struggling to process what he'd just witnessed. Chief Reynolds—the incorruptible head of security who answered only to Owen Cooper—had just called this young man "Boss."But it couldn't be true. It was impossible."This is absurd!" Another director—Thomas Marsh, a portly man in his fifties who'd served on Titan Group's board for fifteen years—slammed his hand on the table. "I don't care what Chief Reynolds said. You're nobody! Some upstart who married into the Hartford family! You can't just walk in here and—""Can't I?" Marcus's voice was utterly calm, but something in his tone made Marsh's protest die in his throat. "Director Marsh, is it? Tell me—how long have you worked for Titan Group?""Fifteen years," Marsh said defensively. "I've served this company with distinction while you were probably still in school!""Fifteen years of collecting a salary, attending meetings, and making mediocre decisi