# Chapter 11: The Laundry Room Ambush
The air in the Blackstone laundry room was a thick, suffocating blanket of steam and chemicals. It smelled of industrial bleach, scorched cotton, and the faint, metallic tang of recycled water. The roar of a dozen industrial washers and dryers created a constant, bone-rattling cacophony that vibrated through the grated metal floor and up into Barrett's teeth. He was pressed into a narrow service corridor between two towering, rumbling dryers, their heat a palpable force against his back. The steam, thick as smoke, curled around him, a perfect shroud. He was a ghost in the machine, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs, each beat a countdown to violence.
Two days. It had taken two days of meticulous planning, of poring over Anya's schematics, of Eirik's quiet, cynical guidance from his infirmary bed. Now, the plan was in motion. Eirik was the bait. He was currently "arguing" with a guard near the main entrance, a staged disturbance designed to draw attention. The plan was simple: create a window, isolate the target, and strike with overwhelming force. Simple plans, Barrett was learning, had a nasty habit of becoming complicated.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the unfamiliar hum of energy coiled beneath his skin. His Iron Rank status wasn't just a title; it was a physical reality. His senses were sharper, the individual scents of bleach and sweat and fear distinct layers in the oppressive atmosphere. His muscles felt denser, coiled with a new, predatory power. He focused, trying to grasp the nascent abilities Eirik had told him about. *Aura Suppression*. He pictured his life force, his Essence, as a flickering candle flame, and willed it to shrink, to become a mere spark in the roaring furnace of the room. The air around him seemed to thicken, the shadows deepen. He felt less present, less real. It was a disorienting, yet powerful, sensation.
A heavy metal door groaned open at the far end of the cavernous room, cutting through the mechanical din. Three figures stepped into the hazy landscape. Taaland was unmistakable, even as a silhouette. He was a mountain of a man, his sheer presence seeming to push the steam aside. He moved with a predatory confidence, his eyes scanning the room, missing nothing. Flanking him were two guards, their stances professional, their hands resting near their stun batons. These weren't the usual rent-a-cops; these were the Inner Circle's enforcers, their auras glowing with a steady, disciplined light that marked them as at least Bronze Rank.
Eirik's diversion was working. The guard he was arguing with was shouting, his voice echoing, drawing the lazy gaze of a few other orderlies. Taaland and his escorts ignored the noise, their focus on a massive folding table in the center of the room where a duffel bag waited. This was it. The exchange point.
Barrett held his breath, his body a compressed spring. He watched as Taaland unzipped the bag, his movements economical and precise. The gang leader was a warrior, every inch of him screaming danger. This wasn't going to be a simple takedown. The two guards fanned out, their eyes sweeping the periphery, their training evident in the way they covered each other's blind spots. One of them, a man with a jagged scar across his nose, was walking a path that would take him perilously close to Barrett's hiding spot.
*Now,* Eirik's voice crackled in his ear through a tiny, modified earpiece. *The one on the left. Scar. He's yours. I'll take the other. Taaland is the prize.*
Barrett didn't hesitate. As the scarred guard passed the end of the dryer, Barrett exploded from the shadows. He didn't roar or shout. He moved with a silent, fluid speed that surprised even himself. His hand clamped over the guard's mouth while his other arm wrapped around his throat, leveraging his new strength to lift the man off his feet. The guard struggled violently, his elbow jabbing back into Barrett's ribs with enough force to crack a normal man's bones. Barrett grunted, the pain sharp but manageable, and squeezed. The guard's flailing weakened, his body going limp. Barrett lowered him silently to the grated floor, the clatter of his equipment lost in the industrial roar.
The second guard spun around, his stun baton already humming with electric energy. But Eirik was already there. He hadn't been part of the staged argument; he'd been using the chaos as cover to circle around. He moved like a rat in the walls, low and fast. He didn't engage head-on. He swept the guard's legs out from under him with a rusty pipe he'd grabbed from a maintenance cart. The guard went down with a surprised grunt, and Eirik was on him, driving the pipe into the man's wrist with a sickening crunch. The baton skittered across the floor. Eirik followed up with a brutal kick to the temple, and the second guard was out of the fight.
It had all happened in seconds. But Taaland was not like his men. He hadn't panicked. He hadn't even looked surprised. He had simply turned, his eyes locking onto Barrett with a chilling calm. He let the duffel bag fall to the floor, his hands hanging loose at his sides.
"So, the Ghost of Blackstone decides to show his face," Taaland's voice was a low growl, easily cutting through the noise. "I've been hearing about you. The little guard who thinks he's a predator."
Barrett stepped out from between the dryers, his stun baton in his hand. Eirik moved to flank him, the rusty pipe held like a fang. The steam swirled around them, turning the confrontation into a scene from a nightmare. "I'm here for my brother," Barrett said, his voice tight with rage.
Taaland actually smiled, a cruel twisting of his lips. "Your brother? Liam Kane? He was a fool who got in over his head. A lesson you're about to learn."
Then he moved. He was faster than his bulk should have allowed, a blur of motion. He didn't charge; he flowed, his first blow a short, powerful jab that Barrett barely managed to deflect with his baton. The impact was jarring, a shockwave of force that traveled up Barrett's arm and numbed his shoulder. Taaland followed up with a sweeping kick that forced Barrett back, his heavy boot scraping against the metal floor. Eirik tried to intervene, swinging his pipe at Taaland's head, but the gang leader ducked under the swing with impossible speed and drove an elbow back into Eirik's chest.
Eirik flew backward, crashing into a cart loaded with clean sheets, the fabric spilling across the floor like fresh snow. He gasped for air, his face a mask of pain.
It was just Barrett and Taaland now.
Panic, cold and sharp, tried to claw its way up Barrett's throat. He shoved it down, replacing it with the white-hot fire of his vengeance. He was Iron Rank. He had power. He just had to learn how to use it. Taaland came at him again, a storm of fists and feet. Barrett was on the defensive, his baton a blur of motion as he parried and blocked. Each impact was a thunderclap, rattling his bones. Taaland was toying with him, his aura flaring with a confident, golden light that was clearly a higher rank. He was Bronze, maybe even Silver. The gap between them was a chasm.
Barrett stumbled back, his heel catching on a fallen sheet. He went down hard. Taaland loomed over him, his shadow falling across Barrett's face. "This is where you die, little ghost," he snarled, raising a fist the size of a ham.
Desperation fueled Barrett's next move. He didn't try to get up. He kicked out, sweeping Taaland's feet. The gang leader was too experienced to fall for such a simple trick, but it forced him to shift his weight, to alter his strike for a half-second. It was all the time Barrett needed. He rolled away, scrambling behind one of the massive, vibrating dryers. The metal was hot against his back, the vibrations shaking him to his core.
He needed an edge. He remembered the feeling from the corridor, the act of pulling his aura inward. This time, he tried to push it out, to manipulate the shadows around him. He focused on the dense, steam-filled space between the dryers, pouring his will, his Essence, into the gloom. The shadows deepened, coalescing, writhing like living things. He felt a drain, a sudden lightheadedness, but it worked.
Taaland rounded the corner, his face a mask of fury. He stopped, his eyes narrowing. The space between the machines was now a pit of unnatural darkness. "Parlor tricks," he scoffed, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
He stepped into the shadows.
Barrett struck. He didn't use his baton. He used the darkness itself. He willed the shadows to lash out, to wrap around Taaland's legs. The gang leader grunted in surprise as his ankles were seized by an unseen, cold force. He stumbled, his balance thrown. Barrett burst from his hiding spot, leading with a punch fueled by all his rage and desperation. His fist connected with Taaland's jaw. The impact was solid, a satisfying crack of bone.
Taaland roared, more in anger than pain. He tore free of the shadowy tendrils, his own Essence flaring and shattering Barrett's fragile construct. He swung a wild, powerful backhand that caught Barrett on the side of the head. Stars exploded behind Barrett's eyes. He crashed into a wall of metal lockers, the doors denting inward. He slid to the floor, his vision swimming.
Taaland stalked toward him, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "You have some spark, I'll give you that. But you're still just a child playing with matches."
Eirik was back on his feet. He limped forward, his face pale but his eyes burning with determination. He threw the rusty pipe. It wasn't a powerful throw, but it was a distraction. Taaland instinctively flinched away from the spinning metal, and that was the opening.
Barrett pushed himself up from the floor, every muscle screaming in protest. He channeled the last of his energy, not into shadows, but into pure speed. He closed the distance in three strides, his body a low-slung missile. He didn't aim for a knockout blow. He aimed to incapacitate. He drove his shoulder into Taaland's midsection, lifting the larger man off his feet for a split second. They both crashed into a massive, vibrating dryer, the metal drumming a frantic rhythm against Taaland's back.
The fight had been a whirlwind of steam, steel, and fury, but now it was over. Taaland's two guards were down, groaning in the tangle of sheets and machinery. It was just the two of them. Barrett pressed his forearm against Taaland's throat, the new strength in his muscles making the gang leader's struggles pathetic. "This is for my brother," Barrett snarled, his rage a white-hot fire, ready to consume everything.
Taaland, despite the pressure, despite the blood trickling from his lip, started to laugh. It wasn't a sound of defeat, but of bitter, mocking amusement. "Your brother?" he rasped, his eyes gleaming with a terrible, knowing light. "You still don't get it, do you? Liam wasn't some innocent guard who stumbled into something he shouldn't have. He wasn't asking questions. He was one of us. He was cultivating."