CHAPTER 298: CHAPTER - 298

Chapter - 298

The silence that followed the storm of gunfire was a thick, heavy, suffocating thing. It was heavier than the plaster dust that filled the air, heavier than the oppressive, humid stink of gunpowder and pulverized drywall. In the tiny, disgusting bathroom, the only sound was the frantic, high-pitched hiss of the broken toilet pipe spraying a jet of cold, clean water against the moldy wall.

Rick and Sharon were a tangled, awkward, terrified heap in the cast-iron bathtub, Rick on the bottom, Sharon on top, her face jammed unceremoniously into his bloody, soot-covered shoulder.

"You done?" Rick’s voice was a strained grunt from beneath her. "Or are we moving in? The rent’s cheap."

"Get off me," Sharon hissed, shoving herself off him. She was shaking, her adrenaline dump so severe it made her limbs feel like jelly. They were both soaked. Not just with blood and sweat, but with the high-pressure spray from the shattered toilet.

Rick sat up in the tub, wiping his face. He sniffed his hand. "I’m pretty sure," he said, his voice deadpan, "that’s toilet water."

Sharon’s eyes, already wide with horror, seemed to double in size. She looked at her own hands, at her clothes, at the water dripping from her hair, and a wave of pure, visceral revulsion washed over her. She gagged.

"Oh God," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I’m... I’m going to set myself on fire. Just... don’t talk about it. Don’t ever talk about it. Let’s just... go."

"Go where?" Rick asked, standing up in the tub, his stolen Rolex gleaming even under a layer of filth. "The party’s over. We need to see who’s left to clean up."

He stepped out of the tub, his boots squelching. Sharon, looking like she wanted to scrub her own skin off, followed him, her pistol still gripped in a white-knuckled hand.

"Listen," she whispered.

The hiss of the pipe. The drip-drip-drip of water. And from the parking lot... silence. Absolute silence. The car engine that had been peeling out was gone.

"Is it... is it over?" Sharon whispered.

"Or," Rick whispered back, his eyes on the shattered, smoke-filled doorway of the bathroom, "are they just reloading?"

He didn’t wait for an answer. He moved, low and fast, his body a coiled spring. He burst from the bathroom into the main room, rolling to the relative cover of the overturned, shredded mattress. Sharon was right behind him, dropping to one knee, her pistol scanning the chaos.

The room was not a room. It was an abstract painting of violence. It had been vaporized

. The walls were more holes than drywall, the furniture was just kindling and springs. The air was a grey, unbreathable fog of plaster dust and cordite.

"Jesus," Sharon breathed.

The two goons Nadia had brought with her were... gone. They weren’t just dead; they were art. The disciplined, high-caliber rounds from Marnus’s team had ripped them to shreds. One was a bloody, featureless pile of tactical gear and meat slumped against the wall, his head just a red mist on the peeling paint. The other had been thrown backward so hard he’d gone halfway through the wall into the next motel room.

And the laptop...

Rick’s eyes scanned the wreckage, his heart sinking. The bed, where he’d left it, was now just a pile of springs and smoldering foam. The black, ultra-thin laptop was gone.

"Damn it!" Rick roared, his voice hoarse. He kicked what was left of the exploded toilet bowl. "It’s gone! He got it! Marnus won!"

"We don’t know that!" Sharon said, her voice frantic as she moved to the ruined main doorway, her gun scanning the parking lot. "Julian could have grabbed it. Nadia could have..."

She trailed off, her cop brain processing the new scene of carnage outside.

The parking lot was a warzone. It was littered with shell casings—dozens of them, from at least four different weapons. Smoke and steam poured from the engine of Julian Croft’s expensive black sedan. The car that had been flanking him was on fire.

The bodyguard who had been returning fire was no longer a threat. He was slumped over the hood of the burning car, his chest a bloody, unrecognizable mess. Julian’s other bodyguard was a few feet away, lying face down in a pool of his own blood.

"Julian?" Sharon whispered, moving cautiously out into the open.

His car door was open. There was blood on the seat. But he was gone. Escaped? Dragged away? Dead? There was no way to know.

And Nadia?

Rick joined Sharon in the parking lot, his eyes scanning, his rage mounting. There was no sign of her. No body. No tactical catsuit. No SMG.

"He got her," Rick said, his voice a low, furious growl. "Marnus. His team wiped the floor with everyone, grabbed the laptop, and grabbed her."

"How do you know?" Sharon said, her mind spinning. "She could have escaped. Julian’s guys could have grabbed her. She could be the one who peeled out. She’s ’Raven’, right? She’s the mastermind!"

"No," Rick said. He pointed. His voice was cold.

There, on the asphalt, right where Nadia had been standing when the first shots were fired, was her compact H&K submachine gun. And next to it, a single, black, tactical glove.

"She wouldn’t have left her gun," Rick said, his mind putting the pieces together. "Not her. She’s a pro. And she wouldn’t have dropped a glove unless she was dragged."

He stared at the small, discarded glove, and a new, terrible, and confusing thought hit him. "He... he wanted

her. The bullhorn... ’My employee.’ It was personal. He didn’t just want the laptop. He wanted her."

The entire con, the amnesia, the ’Raven’ persona... it was all real, but he’d gotten the players wrong. Nadia wasn’t the final boss. She was just a mid-level manager who had tried to steal from the company, and the CEO had just shown up and liquidated her entire department.

This changed everything. His quest... Race Against Time... the timer was still ticking in his head. 5 Days, 19 Hours... The objective was to rescue Nadia. The System had been right all along. He’d been the idiot.

"So what now?" Sharon breathed, her face pale. "Marnus Warner. He’s not just some... criminal. He runs this city. We can’t go after him. We’re covered in blood, we’re accessories to... to... this." She waved her gun at the four dead bodies and the burning cars. "This is over. We’re done."

WEE-WOO... WEE-WOO...

The sound was faint at first, a distant, familiar cry in the night. But it was getting closer. Fast.

"Cops," Sharon breathed, her face going white with a new, more immediate terror. "Real cops. Oh God. Rick, we are... we are so fucked."

She was right. The firefight, the bullhorn, the explosions—it was too loud, too chaotic. Someone had called it in.

"They’re going to find us," she said, her voice rising in panic. "We’re in a trashed motel room, two dead bodies inside, four outside, covered in blood and toilet water, holding guns. My badge isn’t going to fix this. This is a... this is a career-ending, life-in-prison kind of FUBAR."

Rick was already moving. He ran back into the room, grabbed the empty laptop case—a prop, just in case—and ran back out, grabbing her arm. "We’re not being arrested. We’re leaving."

"Where?!" she yelped, as he dragged her around the side of the building. "The bike is out front! They’ll see us! They’re... they’re right here!"

The first squad car, lights blazing, screeched into the parking lot, followed immediately by two more.

"Not the front. The back," Rick grunted. He dragged her to the one part of the building that wasn’t riddled with bullets: the side wall. He pointed up. To the tiny, filth-encrusted window of their bathroom.

"You’re joking," Sharon panted.

"I’m not," Rick said. He smashed the glass with his elbow, the sound lost in the shouting from the front. "It’s the only way out. I’ll boost you. Go."

"What about you?"

"I’ll follow! Just go!"

"Boost me? I’m not... just... fine!" She was desperate. She put her muddy, bloody boot into his laced, bloody hands. "Don’t... don’t look up!"

"On three," he grunted, positioning himself. "One... two..."

"I wasn’t ready!" she yelped, as he shoved, unceremoniously, with all his strength.

He wasn’t trying to be gentle; he was trying to be fast. He boosted her, ass-first, halfway through the tiny, jagged window frame.

"I’m stuck!" she shrieked, her voice muffled. "My belt... it’s caught! Rick, I’m stuck!"

"You’re not stuck!" he grunted, pushing. "You’re just... stop wiggling!"

"I’m not wiggling, you... ooph... you’re pushing my... just PUSH!"

"FREEZE! POLICE!"

A beam of light, brighter than the sun, slammed into them. Two uniformed Portstown officers, their guns drawn, were rounding the corner of the building, having heard the glass break.

"HANDS IN THE AIR! HANDS... what the hell?" the first cop said, his voice trailing off as he took in the utterly surreal scene.

A man, caked in blood and filth, was holding a woman, also caked in blood and filth, halfway into a window, his hands placed firmly on her buttocks.

Sharon froze, her top half in the bathroom, her bottom half exposed to the Portstown PD. "Oh, God," she mortifiedly whispered.

Rick, his hands still on her ass, looked over his shoulder at the two cops. The sirens, the shouting, the blood, the sheer, pants-down absurdity of the moment... it was too much.

He gave the cops a small, tired, helpful smile. "It’s... not what it looks like."

The two cops just stared, their guns wavering, their minds completely failing to find a procedure in the manual for this.

"Ma’am? Are you... okay?" the first cop asked, his voice cracking with confusion.

Sharon, from inside the bathroom, her voice a muffled wail of pure humiliation, yelled, "JUST ARREST HIM!"

"HANDS UP!" the cop yelled, finally finding his footing. "GET ON THE GROUND! BOTH OF YOU! GET... GET HER OUT OF THE WINDOW!"

Rick sighed. He let go of Sharon, who, with a final, desperate wiggle, unhooked her belt and tumbled the rest of the way into the bathroom with a crash and a splash (the toilet pipe was still going).

Rick, his hands raised in surrender, turned to face the two cops. His mind was racing. 5 Days, 18 Hours... He was trapped. The laptop was gone. Nadia was gone. The cops were here.

This, he decided, was a new, personal low.