Page 72 of Damian
We hit the north wing doors, heavy steel reinforced with bars. Cyclone’s voice cut in, smug even through the static. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your key.”
A sharpclickechoed through my comm. The locks disengaged.
I shoved the doors wide.
The room beyond was cavernous, humming with generators, walls lined with servers that blinked like an electronic heartbeat. And at the far end—Luthor.
He stood flanked by two guards, his suit immaculate despite the chaos, his smirk carved in place. He didn’t look surprised to see us.
“Mr. Cross,” he drawled, his voice amplified by the acoustics. “I was wondering when you’d arrive. You’ve been…persistent.”
Rage burned hot in my chest. My rifle snapped up, sight trained dead-center. “Tonight it ends.”
Luthor chuckled, a sound that made my skin crawl. “Perhaps. But not the way you think.”
The guards moved, rifles rising—
“Contact!” Oliver barked.
Gunfire shattered the room, the fight erupting all over again.
And through the chaos, I locked eyes with Luthor. The man behind every cage, every scar, every sleepless night.
This wasn’t just another mission.
This was personal.
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Damian
Chaos detonated.
The first guard went down in a spray of blood as Oliver’s shot cracked across the server room. The second returned fire, bullets chewing into the racks, sparks and smoke spitting into the air. I ducked low, rolled behind a console, and fired two rounds through the guard’s chest. He dropped hard.
“Clear!” Oliver shouted.
But Luthor didn’t flinch. He stood calm in his tailored suit, hands clasped behind his back as though the storm belonged to him. His smirk deepened.
“You think you’ve won something here,” he said, his voice steady even over the alarms. “You’ve cut branches, Cross. But the roots?” He tapped a finger to his temple. “They run deeper than you can imagine.”
I surged forward, rifle raised, the fury in me burning hotter than the gunfire. “Roots can burn just as easy.”
Before I reached him, two more doors slammed open—reinforcements flooding the room. Black-clad men, half a dozen rifles snapping up. The air exploded with lead.
Oliver dove for cover, barking curses as he returned fire. Sparks rained from the servers, smoke curling into the ceiling.
“Damian, fall back!” Cyclone’s voice crackled over comms. “Too many signatures—more are coming!”
“No.” I fired into the cluster, one man dropping, another spinning as my round tore through his shoulder. “I’m not leaving without him.”
Gage’s rifle barked from the west window, his shots surgical, dropping two men before they could flank us. “Buy your window, Damian. Don’t waste it.”
I moved fast, cutting through the haze. One guard lunged at me, knife flashing—I slammed his wrist, twisted, drove the blade into his gut, and shoved him aside. Another came from the left; Oliver’s bullet snapped his head back before he reached me.
Then it was just me and Luthor.
He’d drawn a pistol, sleek and custom, but he held it loose, almost lazy, as if I were already beaten.
