The Exile's Wrath

CHAPTER 5: The Devil’s Playground

The armory inside the penthouse wasn’t just a gun rack; it was a cathedral of violence.

A hidden wall in the master bedroom slid open silently, revealing racks of matte-black assault rifles, serrated combat knives, and tactical body armor. The blue LED lighting cast long, sharp shadows across John’s face as he stripped off his ruined suit jacket.

Elena stood in the doorway, hugging herself. Her silver dress was stained with dust from the sniper attack, and her face was pale. She looked like a ghost haunting a war room.

“You have a military arsenal in your apartment,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

John didn’t turn. He pulled a Kevlar vest over his dress shirt, the velcro straps tearing through the silence.

“I have enemies, Elena. Powerful ones.”

“Is this who you are now?” Her voice trembled. “The boy who used to read poetry with me… is he gone?”

John paused. He picked up a pair of tactical gloves, his thumbs running over the reinforced knuckles. He looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the gun cabinet. The scar through his eyebrow looked deeper in this light.

“That boy died in the mud fifteen years ago,” John said softly. “He was weak. He couldn't save anyone. I killed him so I could become something that could survive.”

He turned to her. His eyes were softer for a moment. “Stay here with Drax’s team. Do not open the door for anyone. Not the police. Not your father. No one.”

Elena stepped forward, her fear momentarily replaced by desperation. “You’re going to find Ivy?”

“I’m going to bring her home.”

“Don’t die, John.”

He didn’t promise. He never made promises he couldn’t keep.

John holstered a silenced pistol and grabbed a jagged combat knife. He walked past her, his scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne lingering in the air.

Down in the garage, Drax was waiting by a black motorcycle, a heavily modified Ducati, stripped of plates and painted in radar-absorbent coating.

“The Docks are a kill box, Commander,” Drax warned, his massive arms crossed. “The Syndicate doesn’t send invitations unless they’ve already dug the grave.”

“I know,” John said, swinging a leg over the bike.

“Let me send Alpha Team with you. We can level the port.”

“No,” John revved the engine. The sound was a guttural growl that vibrated in his chest. “The message said ‘come alone.’ If they see a team, Ivy dies. I won’t risk it.”

“Then take this.” Drax tossed him a small, coin-sized device. “Bone-conduction comms. If your heart stops, it sends a signal to the orbital strike satellite. I’ll turn the docks into a crater.”

John caught it and placed it in his ear. “Comforting.”

He kicked the kickstand up. “If I’m not back by dawn, burn the city down.”

The bike tires shrieked against the concrete, and John shot out of the garage like a bullet fired into the night.

The city of Ironhaven blurred past him. Neon lights reflected on the wet asphalt. He wasn't thinking about the Sterlings anymore. He was thinking about Ivy. The last time he saw her, she was crying in the backseat of a social worker’s car, clutching a ragged teddy bear. She was ten. Innocent.

If they had hurt her... if they had touched a hair on her head...

John’s grip on the handlebars tightened until the leather creaked. He merged onto the highway leading to the industrial district, weaving through traffic at a hundred miles an hour.

The Docks loomed ahead, a labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, towering cranes, and fog. It was the part of the city the law forgot.

John killed the engine a mile out and coasted into the shadows. Silence was his armor now.

He dismounted and moved toward Pier 4, the coordinates burned into his mind. The smell of salt, diesel, and rotting fish was overpowering. Fog rolled off the water, thick and unnatural.

He reached the entrance of a massive, derelict warehouse. The door was slightly ajar.

John drew his knife. He stepped into the darkness.

"Welcome home, Number 7," a voice echoed from the rafters.

The warehouse was a cavern of rust. Chains hung from the ceiling like iron vines, and the only light came from flickering halogen bulbs that buzzed like angry hornets.

John stood in the center of the open floor, his senses dialed to eleven.

"Show yourself," John said. His voice was calm, echoing off the metal walls.

"Impatient," the voice mocked. It was coming from a speaker system, distorted and echoing. "You always were. That's why you lost your first fight in the Pit. Remember?"

Floodlights suddenly slammed on, blindingly bright.

John didn't flinch. He squinted against the glare.

Surrounding him, standing on top of stacked shipping containers, were ten men. They didn't look like the Sterling thugs. These men wore mismatched tactical gear, masks painted with skeletal grins, and carried weapons that looked well-used.

Mercenaries. Pit fighters.

"The Sterlings paid a premium for your head," the voice continued. "But the Syndicate... we want the sport. Fifteen years, Number 7. You left without saying goodbye."

A massive container door at the far end of the warehouse hissed open.

Out walked a man who was a nightmare made flesh. He stood seven feet tall, his skin pale and scarred, wearing a leather butcher’s apron over a bare chest. He dragged a massive, rusted anchor on a chain behind him.

"Meet The Golem," the voice sneered. "He's new. He wants to see if the legend of The Wraith is real."

The Golem roared, a sound devoid of humanity, and swung the anchor.

The heavy iron hook tore through the air. John dropped flat. The anchor smashed into a concrete pillar behind him, pulverizing it into dust.

John rolled to his feet. "Where is she?"

" Survive," the voice laughed. "Then we talk."

The ten mercenaries on the containers opened fire.

John moved. He wasn't a man anymore; he was a shadow. He sprinted toward the nearest stack of crates, bullets chewing up the ground at his heels. He leaped, kicked off the wall, and grabbed the railing of the catwalk.

A mercenary leaned over to shoot him. John drove his knife upward, through the metal grating and into the man’s boot. The man screamed, and John yanked him down, using his body as a shield against the incoming fire.

John tossed the body aside and vaulted onto the containers. Close quarters. His world.

He moved through the mercenaries like a scythe through wheat. A throat chop. A knee to the temple. A shattered elbow. He didn't waste energy. Every strike was a finisher.

But The Golem was climbing.

The giant smashed his way up the crates, crushing wood and metal. He swung the chain again. John ducked, but the chain wrapped around his ankle.

"Got you!" The Golem grunted.

He yanked. John was ripped from his footing and slammed into the metal wall of the warehouse. The impact knocked the wind out of him. He tasted blood.

The Golem dragged him closer, raising a massive fist to crush John’s skull.

John looked up, dazed. He saw a loose industrial hook dangling from a crane above The Golem.

As the giant prepared to strike, John drew his pistol. He didn't aim at The Golem. He aimed at the winch holding the crane hook.

BANG.

The cable snapped.

The two-ton steel hook dropped like a guillotine.

It struck The Golem square in the shoulder, driving him into the ground with a sickening crunch of bone and metal. The giant screamed, pinned to the floor, the fight instantly gone from him.

John stood up, swaying slightly. He wiped blood from his lip. The other mercenaries were either unconscious or groaning in pain.

"I asked," John shouted at the ceiling, "WHERE IS SHE?"

The slow clap of hands echoed through the speakers.

"Impressive. Very impressive."

A spotlight hit the center of the warehouse floor. A single chair sat there. On it was a tablet.

John limped toward it. He picked up the device.

The screen lit up. It was a live video feed.

It showed a small, windowless cell. In the corner, huddled against the wall, was a woman with blonde hair. Ivy.

"Ivy!" John yelled at the screen.

She didn't move.

Then, a figure walked into the frame of the video. A man wearing a silver mask. He held a phone to the camera.

The voice on the speakers spoke again. "She's safe. For now. But the game has changed, Number 7."

"Who are you?" John growled.

The man in the video reached up and slowly removed the silver mask.

John’s breath hitched. He recognized the face. A long scar ran from his ear to his chin.

"Hello, John," the man said. "It's been a long time."

It was Viper. His old rival from the Pit. The man John had spared fifteen years ago.

"Viper," John whispered. "You work for the Sterlings?"

"The Sterlings?" Viper laughed. "No. The Sterlings work for us."

The tablet beeped. A countdown appeared on the screen. 00:10.

"This warehouse is rigged with C4," Viper said pleasantly. "You have ten seconds. Run."