The abandoned construction site loomed against the night sky like a monument to decay.Thirty floors of skeletal steel and exposed concrete, no walls, no safety rails, just open air where windows should be. Wind howled through empty spaces, making the structure groan like a wounded animal. Perfect for a fight the world would never officially know happened.Isabella's men secured the perimeter with military precision. Twenty soldiers forming a ring, automatic weapons ready, making sure no one interrupted and no one escaped. This was a cage now. A killing floor.A hundred yards away, Matteo Vittore watched from behind tinted SUV windows, phone recording everything for analysis later. His nephew Carter sat beside him, shoulder wound bandaged poorly, face pale from blood loss and shock."Uncle," Carter gasped, voice weak. "Why are you letting her do this? She's going to kill him. Your whole plan—""Because I need to see what the General is truly capable of," Matteo interrupted, eyes never

Blood painted the construction site's fifth floor in patterns that looked like abstract art.Grayson backed against a steel support beam, bleeding from seven cuts—arms scored open, chest slashed, legs marked with precision wounds designed to weaken without killing. His shirt hung in tatters, soaked crimson, breath coming in labored gasps.Isabella danced around him like death made beautiful, her knives gleaming under portable lights. She bore only scratches—barely touched, impossibly fast, enjoying this like entertainment."You're slower," she taunted, voice carrying predatory satisfaction. "The legendary Northern Dragon is just a man after all. Bleeding. Tired. Mortal."Grayson's vision blurred from blood loss. He pressed his back harder against the beam, using it to stay upright, conserving what strength remained. Every breath hurt. Every movement pulled wounds wider."My father told me stories about you," Isabella continued, circling with patient cruelty. "The American general who

The Reed mansion's living room glowed with the light of multiple screens showing the same nightmare.Patricia sat frozen on the couch, watching news coverage from six different channels. All of them broadcasting the construction site standoff live. Helicopters circling like vultures. FBI establishing perimeter. Gunfire echoing through skeletal steel.And somewhere in that chaos, Grayson Wells was fighting for his life.Vanessa paced behind the couch like a caged animal, phone clutched in white-knuckled hands, face twisted with something that looked like triumph and insanity married together."He's dying," she whispered, eyes glued to the screens. "Finally dying. Finally PAYING for what he did to us.""Vanessa, the news says there's a woman trapped inside—" Patricia's voice was hollow. "Ava Morgan. If she dies, if this goes wrong, the FBI will trace everything back to—""I don't CARE!" Vanessa's shriek made Patricia flinch. "Let them both die! Let the building collapse! Let Isabella cu

Ava felt the explosion before she heard it.The fourth floor bucked beneath her feet like a living thing trying to throw her off. Concrete cracked with sounds like gunshots. Steel support beams screamed as metal twisted beyond engineering tolerances."James! What's happening?!" She grabbed a pillar for stability as the world tilted sideways.His voice crackled through her earpiece, urgent and afraid. "Building's collapsing! Basement explosives just detonated! Foundation's compromised! You have maybe ninety seconds before that floor pancakes!"Ava ran.Guards forgotten. Mission forgotten. Just raw survival instinct as the floor beneath her feet began disintegrating. Cracks spreading like spiderwebs. Chunks of concrete falling into darkness below.Above her on the fifth floor, Grayson tore through wreckage toward the stairwell, Isabella's warning echoing in his mind. She showed Grayson footage of you. He knows you're here.His wounds bled freely—shoulder, ribs, back, arms. Eight cuts Isa

Sacred Heart Shelter's temporary location was surrounded by men who looked like death wearing tactical gear.Twenty armed soldiers in formation, automatic weapons ready, establishing kill zones that covered every exit. The leader—a brutal man named Viktor with scars that told stories of violence survived—radioed Marcus Wolfe with satisfaction."Building secured, Master. Forty-seven hostages confirmed. Mostly children under twelve. Three adult staff members. Perfect leverage."Marcus Wolfe's voice crackled through encrypted channel, smooth and pleased. "Excellent. Hold position. When the General arrives, we begin negotiations."Inside the shelter, Sarah Martinez barricaded doors with furniture that wouldn't stop bullets but might slow entry by seconds. Children cried in terror, huddled in the main room, not understanding why nice people with guns were surrounding them.Emma clutched Mr. Buttons against her chest, the burned teddy bear somehow still her anchor to safety. "Will Mr. Grays