Tyrone's Pov
The docks were empty, except for the occasional groan of a chain or the clatter of a seagull. Shipping containers loomed like metal monoliths under the dim, gray afternoon sky.
He checked his watch, then the dark silhouette of the man approaching him... Adrian appeared between two containers. The man's pace was frantic, unsteady.
"Tyrone… man, I messed up. Real bad." Adrian hissed, glancing over his shoulder like the shadows themselves were hunting him. His hands were shaking as he clutched a manila folder stuffed with papers.
"Operation Sky Sintel… it's..."
Before he could finish, a deafening pop cut through the dock's emptiness.
Tyrone reacted instinctively, ducking behind a stacked container as bullets ripped through the metal, spraying sparks and splintering wood nearby. Adrian froze, wide-eyed, the folder slipping from his fingers.
"Move!" Tyrone barked, but it was too late. Three figures, dressed in black and masked with ski masks, emerged from the shadows, rifles raised and eyes cold behind the fabric.
Adrian took a step forward. A single burst of gunfire caught him squarely in the chest. He crumpled, blood blooming across his shirt as he stumbled, eyes wide with disbelief. Tyrone's stomach clenched but his instincts screamed survival.
Tyrone's heart slammed against his ribs as Adrian's body went still, a lifeless heap on the cold dock floor. The folder lay inches from him, pages fluttering like wounded birds. Tyrone lunged, snatching it up and stuffing it into his jacket.
He scrambled toward his car, tires crunching against the gravel. Behind him, the attackers fired again. The bullets pinged off the hood of his car, one shattering the rear window, sending shards of glass spraying across the asphalt. He dove into the driver's seat, slamming the door.
Adrenaline burned through him as he yanked the keys from his pocket, heart hammering, fingers slick with sweat. The engine roared and he floored it. The tires screamed on the metal dock, sparks flying from the undercarriage where a bullet had grazed the exhaust.
Behind him, the attackers gave chase, moving from cover to cover, rifles blazing. Tyrone swerved sharply, knocking a stack of empty crates into their path, scattering debris and forcing them to slow down. But one shot caught the rear fender, jolting the car violently and sending pain lancing through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, ignoring it, focusing on the narrow escape route through the shipping lanes.
Bullets pinged off the car again and again, some embedding in the metal doors, some shattering the headlights. Tyrone cursed under his breath, weaving through the maze of containers, sparks and smoke swirling in the tight corridors like a war zone.
He spotted the end of the dock, a ramp leading to the open road. If he could make it there, he'd have a chance. The attackers were still following but Tyrone pushed the car past its limits, the tires screaming against the asphalt as he climbed the ramp.
Once on the road, he floored it, swerving to throw off their aim. The bullets continued to hit but the open space gave him the advantage. Tyrone's mind raced, cataloging every potential turn, every alley, every safe place he could reach.
He knew the attackers weren't amateurs, they were precise, ruthless. But he had one thing they didn't: knowledge of the city, knowledge of every dead-end and hidden path.
Minutes felt like hours as he weaved through narrow streets, the folder pressed against his chest. His shoulder burned from the earlier shot but he ignored it, adrenaline numbing the pain.
Finally, he reached the outskirts of the industrial district, where a nondescript building stood, a safe house only he and a few trusted allies knew existed.
Tyrone pulled the car to a stop, checking the mirrors for any sign of pursuit. Silence greeted him, thick and heavy. He allowed himself a single breath, tasting copper and salt from his own panic.
Inside, he bolted the door behind him, setting up a small perimeter alarm. Every nerve was alert, every muscle coiled. The folder sat on the table in front of him, the weight of its contents heavier than anything he had lifted in years.
He reached for his phone, hands still trembling slightly. One number came to mind immediately: Ryan. He dialed quickly, keeping his eyes on the shadows outside the reinforced windows.
The line rang twice.
"Hale." he said once the call connected, voice low but urgent. "Get here. Now. We've got Sky Sintel but...man. It's worse."
He hung up, listening to the silence, broken only by the faint creak of the building settling.
Tyrone stared at the folder, then back toward the windows and for the first time in a long while, let himself shiver, not from fear but from the realization of how deep the rot went.