Chapter - 300

The back of the armored Suburban was less a vehicle and more a mobile command center designed by someone who had watched too many spy movies and had an unlimited budget. The air inside was scrubbed, cool, and smelled of ozone, gun oil, and expensive leather—a stark, jarring contrast to Rick and Sharon, who smelled like a wet dog had rolled in a slaughterhouse and then died in a septic tank.

Sharon sat on a plush leather bench, shivering, clutching her plastic shower curtain toga around her like it was a royal robe. She was staring at "Johnson," the man in the three-piece suit who had just offered them the world on a silver platter, with a look that suggested she was considering shooting him just to make the headache stop.

"Let me get this straight," she said, her teeth chattering slightly. "You're... 'Corporate Oversight'. You're the people who fix the people who fix problems. And you want us—a rogue homicide detective currently wearing bathroom decor and a civilian consultant who solves crimes with golf clubs—to assault the most secure building in the city?"

Johnson smiled, handing her a heavy, black duffel bag. "We prefer the term 'Asset Denial Specialists', Lieutenant. And yes. Because Marnus Warner doesn't expect a surgical strike. He expects the police, or the Feds, or a rival cartel. He has contingencies for those. He does not have a contingency for... whatever the hell you two are."

He gestured to the bag. "Clothes. Tactical gear. Weapons. We took the liberty of guessing your sizes based on visual assessment. Get changed. The partition is soundproof and opaque. You have five minutes."

He pressed a button, and a thick glass privacy divider slid up, sealing the driver's cabin and Johnson off from the back.

Rick didn't hesitate. He ripped open his bag. Inside was a neatly folded, charcoal-grey, Italian-cut three-piece suit. It felt heavy.

"Kevlar weave lining," Rick noted, admiring the fabric. "Classy."

Sharon opened hers. It was standard, high-end tactical blacks. Cargo pants, combat boots, a tight-fitting under-armor shirt, and a plate carrier vest. Practical. Deadly. Boring.

"Why do you get the suit?" she snapped, dropping her shower curtain and frantically toweling off the blood and grime with the wet wipes provided.

"Because I'm the face of the operation," Rick said, stripping off his ruined, blood-soaked clothes without a shred of modesty. "You're the muscle. Besides, I just got this watch. It doesn't go with cargo pants."

Sharon, currently trying to hop into a pair of tactical trousers while the van swerved around a corner, just glared at his naked back. "I hate you. I want that on the record. I am doing this under duress, and I hate you."

"Noted," Rick said, stepping into the trousers. They fit perfectly. "The System says you're warming up to me."

"Your 'System' is a liar."

Four minutes later, the partition slid down. They were transformed. Rick looked like a GQ model who moonlighted as a hitman. The suit fit like a second skin, hiding the bruises and the exhaustion. He adjusted his cuffs, the platinum Rolex gleaming. Sharon looked like a Valkyrie in SWAT gear. Her hair was slicked back, her face scrubbed clean (mostly), and she was checking the action on a customized SIG Sauer P226.

"Better," Johnson said, nodding approvingly. "You almost look like professionals."

He tapped a keyboard, and a massive screen on the wall lit up with a 3D wireframe schematic of a skyscraper. WARNER TOWER.

"Here's the situation," Johnson said, his voice all business. "Warner is in the Penthouse. Floor 90. It is a fortress. Private elevator access only, biometric locks, and a literal army of private security contractors who are paid enough not to ask questions and to shoot to kill."

He zoomed in on the top floor. "Nadia is being held in the Master Suite. Warner isn't just holding her for leverage; he needs her. The laptop you found—the copy—was a decoy. The real data is encrypted on a secure server in the Cayman Islands. Nadia is the only one with the biometric key—her retina scan and voice print—to unlock it. He's forcing her to do the transfer now."

"So we have a timer," Rick said.

"Exactly. Once the transfer is complete, Nadia becomes a loose end. Warner will kill her, wipe the servers, and disappear. You have maybe an hour."

Johnson handed Rick a small, sleek earpiece. "Comms. I'll be your eye in the sky. I can loop the security cameras, hack the elevators, and unlock the doors. But I can't hack the men with guns. That's your department."

"What about the lobby?" Sharon asked, holstering her weapon. "We can't just walk in. It'll be crawling with guards."

Johnson smirked. "Actually, that's exactly what you're going to do. 'Operation: Loud Noise'. We're going to create a diversion so big that Warner will be forced to consolidate his forces, leaving the path to the elevator clear."

"What kind of diversion?" Rick asked.

Johnson pressed a button on his console. "This kind."

The Suburban screeched to a halt. The back doors flew open.

They weren't at the back entrance. They weren't at a loading dock. They were parked directly on the sidewalk, right in front of the massive, glass-and-steel main entrance of Warner Tower.

"Go!" Johnson yelled.

Rick and Sharon stepped out. The night air was cool. The street was surprisingly empty, blocked off by "construction crews" that were undoubtedly Johnson's people.

Rick straightened his tie. Sharon racked the slide of her pistol.

"Ready?" Rick asked.

"No," Sharon said. "Let's do it."

They walked toward the revolving doors. Inside the brightly lit, marble-floored lobby, three security guards in dark suits looked up, confused. One of them reached for his radio.

Rick didn't slow down. He walked right up to the glass.

[Ding!]

The System, sensing the moment, chimed in with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for a game show host.

[System Notification: Main Quest Updated!]

[Quest: The Tower of Babel]

[Objective: Reach the 90th Floor. Eliminate Marnus Warner. Rescue Nadia Ahmed.]

[Sub-Quest: Knock-Knock]

[Objective: Secure the lobby in under 30 seconds. Style points awarded for brutality.]

[Reward: 50,000 XP, $100,000, New Skill: 'Bullet Time' (Active - 5 Seconds)]

Rick smiled. "Showtime."

He kicked the revolving door. It spun, and he stepped through, Sharon right on his heels.

"Sir, the building is closed!" the head guard shouted, stepping forward, his hand on his taser. "You need to leave immediately!"

Rick stopped in the center of the lobby. He looked at the guard. He activated his new skill.

"KNEEL."

The word didn't just come out of his mouth; it erupted. It was a physical force, amplified by the Voice of Command skill. The air in the lobby seemed to vibrate.

The head guard's eyes rolled back in his head. His knees buckled as if the strings had been cut, and he dropped to the marble floor, stunned into absolute catatonia.

The other two guards froze, staring at their collapsed leader in shock.

"What the..." one started.

Rick didn't give them time to process the sorcery. He moved. He grabbed a heavy, brass stanchion post—the kind used for velvet ropes—and swung it like a baseball bat.

CLANG!

It connected with the second guard's jaw. Teeth and blood sprayed across the pristine reception desk. The man spun in the air and hit the floor, out cold.

The third guard fumbled for his gun. Sharon, moving with fluid, practiced efficiency, didn't even slow down. She fired two shots—BANG-BANG!—not to kill, but to disable. One round shattered the guard's shoulder, the other his knee. He screamed and went down.

"Lobby secure," Rick said, adjusting his cuffs. "Time?"

"Eight seconds," Sharon said, stepping over the groaning guard. "Showoff."

** ** ** ** **

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Author's note: I finally managed to reach the 300 Chapters mark. Those of you have continued to read the story. A special Thank you

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