The Return Of the God Of War

CRACKS IN THE ARMOR

The safe house sat on the edge of the docks — an old warehouse half gutted by fire years ago, now a maze of rusted scaffolding, oil drums, and flickering bare bulbs strung from steel beams. The tide slapped quietly against the pilings below, hiding secrets in the black water.

Inside, Finch hunched over three old towers stacked like a crooked shrine. Cables snaked across the concrete floor like veins. Every so often, he paused to rub his eyes, the harsh blue screen glow turning the scars on his cheek a ghostly white.

Ares stood by the open loading dock door, one boot tapping on the oily floor. The dawn was breaking somewhere beyond the cranes and shipping containers, turning the sky a cold bruised purple. He could smell salt and diesel and the faint sour burn of his own sweat.

Mira perched on an overturned crate beside Finch, one foot bouncing, her eyes flicking from the monitors to the shadows beyond the broken windows. Her jacket was draped across her knees, the barrel of her sidearm peeking out from under the fabric.

“How deep?” Ares asked without turning.

Finch cracked his knuckles, fingers already dancing again. “Deeper than hell. Hale’s layers got layers. It’s like hacking the Vatican if the Vatican sold guns and senators on weekends.”

Mira snorted. “Weird mental picture.”

Ares said nothing. His eyes were on the skyline — the distant glow of the city that once spat him out now waiting for him to come stomping back through its marble lobbies and glass towers. His thumb brushed the edge of his sister’s photo in his pocket. He pictured her in the cheap frame she’d kept by her bed, all those small dreams they’d talked about in whispers when they were kids. None of this dirt and blood had touched her back then.

Finch’s keyboard clattered louder. “You’d better pray your ghost stories hold up. Hale’s sniffers are good. I poke this nest too hard, they’ll track the tremor right here.”

Mira leaned closer. “We’ve got your exits covered, Finch. Just stay inside the wire.”

Finch gave her a flat look. “Lady, you ever see what Hale does to rats?”

Ares turned, his silhouette blocking the dawn behind him. “You want out, you run now. But you stay — you finish it.”

Finch hesitated, eyes darting between them. His jaw twitched. “I stay.”

They worked in shifts. Ares and Mira checked the perimeter every hour. Old storm lanterns cast warped shadows across the rusted catwalks overhead. In the far corner, a leaking pipe dripped water onto a stained mattress they’d dragged from an abandoned office. It was where Ares sat when his boots felt too heavy, his mind drifting back to bullet-riddled roads, desert heat, things he’d buried so deep even Mira didn’t dig there.

Between sweeps, Mira patched into Finch’s feed on her tablet, fingers flicking through stolen files. Names, dates, off-shore banks, fake charities - each piece another brick chipped off Hale’s fortress.

“You ever wonder,” she said once, voice low, “if this city’s even worth saving?”

Ares opened one eye from the shadows. “Doesn’t matter what it’s worth. It’s ours to break.”

Mira snorted, thumbed through another folder. “Fair enough.”

Night dropped heavy again before they heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside. Ares froze. Mira slid off the crate, gun already in her hand, safety off with a soft click. Finch’s typing stopped mid-keystroke. He held his breath, eyes wide as he stared at the security cam feed flickering on the top monitor.

A black SUV idled by the fence line — its headlights off, engine growling low like a dog sniffing the scent of blood.

“Company?” Finch croaked.

Mira moved to the window, peeking through a gap in the rusted siding. Ares was already near the back door, hand resting on the cold steel of the crowbar they’d bolted there as a handle.

A soft voice came through Finch’s cracked headphones - a clipped, calm message buried in static. He twisted a knob, face paling. “They know. Hale’s sniffers. They triangulated a ping off the ghost line. Not my signal, but they’re looking.”

Ares’s jaw tensed. He glanced at Mira. She gave the faintest nod — no fear, just that cold readiness that made him trust her more than most blood kin.

“Finch,” Ares said, voice steady, “ghost this place. Burn your trails. Mira, with me.”

Finch’s hands flew back to the keys. “Gimme sixty seconds!”

Ares slipped through the back door first. The salt wind hit him like a slap. Mira was at his side, Glock low by her thigh. They ducked between two rusted containers stacked like tombstones. Gravel crunched under boots — not theirs.

Two shadows moved near the SUV. Silhouettes against the shifting dock lights — suited, silent, hands tucked in jackets that didn’t hide the bulge of hardware strapped to ribs.

Ares motioned once — Mira flanked right. He moved left, boot soles silent on the wet dock planks. The taste of salt on his lips was sharp as old blood.

One guard turned, hand halfway to his belt. Ares was already inside his space, palm slamming into the man’s throat. The soft gurgle barely rose above the water’s slap. He dragged the limp body behind a barrel as Mira pressed her muzzle to the other man’s temple — pop — a small sound swallowed by the wind.

They worked like ghosts. Two more shapes circled the fence line, flashlights swinging over the weeds. Mira whispered through the comm, “More. They’re sweeping for warm bodies.”

Ares checked his watch. Thirty seconds. Finch better be good for it.

They crept back to the warehouse door. Finch’s face glowed like a ghost in the screen light. He didn’t look up, fingers stabbing keys. “Almost... almost...”

Outside, the SUV’s door slammed. A second vehicle pulled up behind it — big, armored. Hale’s men didn’t come alone when they smelled real blood.

Mira slipped back inside. “We buy him time?”

Ares’s mouth twitched at the corner. “We buy him time.”

When the first real burst of gunfire cracked the night, Ares was already rolling behind an old forklift. Sparks danced off rusted metal as slugs chewed holes in the wall near Finch’s station.

Mira fired twice, dropped a man trying to crawl through the busted dock door. Ares grabbed an old chain lying coiled by the drum rack — swung it wide — the metal links whipping a guard’s legs out from under him. The man hit the floor with a wet crunch.

Finch was shouting now, eyes wild. “Almost there — almost there — got it!”

Ares glanced back. “Torch it!”

Finch slammed a final key. The screens went black — a heartbeat later, a second drive popped free. He snatched it up, fingers trembling.

“It’s done,” Finch gasped. “It’s done... we ghosted the ghost.”

Mira grabbed his arm, hauling him toward the rear door. Ares backed out last, eyes sweeping the dark warehouse where Hale’s men spilled in like roaches.

Outside, dawn was breaking again — bruised purple fading to cold steel.

Mira looked at Ares, breathless but grinning. “We hit him.”

Ares nodded once, blood dripping from his knuckles. “Now we watch him bleed.”