Chapter - 301

Johnson's voice crackled in their ears. "Elevators are on the far wall. I've locked out the other cars. You want the express lift on the right. I'm bringing it down now."

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open. It was empty. Mirrored walls, gold railing, terrible muzak playing a soft jazz cover of "Girl from Ipanema."

Rick and Sharon stepped in. Rick hit the button for the 90th floor. The doors slid shut, sealing out the carnage of the lobby.

The elevator began to rise smoothly.

"So," Rick said, checking his reflection in the mirror and wiping a speck of blood from his cheek. "Nice music."

"Rick," Sharon said, reloading her magazine. "There are ninety floors. Warner knows we're here. Johnson said he'd consolidate his forces, but he didn't say where. This elevator is a kill box."

"Johnson's hacking the system," Rick said confidently. "We're going straight to the top."

The elevator hummed past the 20th floor. The 30th. The 40th.

Then, it slowed.

"Johnson?" Rick tapped his ear. "Why are we slowing down?"

Johnson's voice came back, strained. "I'm locked out! Someone on the inside is overriding my controls. They're executing a manual override. They're stopping the car!"

"Where?" Sharon demanded, raising her gun at the doors.

"Floor 65. The Sky-Lobby. Get ready. You're about to have company."

The elevator jolted to a halt. The ding was cheerful and ominous.

The doors began to slide open.

Rick didn't wait. He didn't know who was out there, but he knew they weren't delivering room service. He activated his new reward.

[System: Bullet Time Activated. 5 Seconds.]

The world turned to molasses. The widening gap between the doors moved inch by agonizing inch. Through the gap, Rick saw them.

Six men. Heavily armored. Automatic rifles raised. They were set up in a firing line, ready to turn the elevator into a shredder.

He saw the muzzle flashes of the first bullets beginning to bloom like tiny, slow-motion flowers.

Rick grabbed Sharon. In the slow, thick air, she felt like a statue. He threw her to the floor, into the corner of the elevator, out of the direct line of fire.

Then he moved. He didn't have a gun. He had the brass stanchion post he'd carried from the lobby.

4 Seconds...

He lunged through the opening doors, diving low, under the line of fire that was just starting to erupt.

3 Seconds...

He hit the floor of the 65th-floor lobby, sliding on the polished marble like a skater. The bullets chewed up the air where he had been standing a microsecond ago.

2 Seconds...

He swept the heavy brass post at the ankles of the first three guards. The impact was slow, deep, and devastating. Their legs broke with the sound of tree branches snapping in a storm. They began to fall, their rifles firing wildly into the ceiling.

1 Second...

Rick sprang up from his slide, using the momentum to drive the brass heavy end of the post directly into the throat of the fourth guard.

[System: Bullet Time Deactivated.]

Time snapped back with a roar.

BRRRRRRRRT!

The sound of automatic fire was deafening. The elevator walls behind them disintegrated into sparks and shredded metal. Sharon, curled on the floor, was screaming something, but Rick couldn't hear her.

The three guards with broken legs hit the ground screaming. The guard with the crushed throat gargled and dropped.

That left two. They spun, trying to track the blur that had just decimated their squad.

Rick didn't stop. He grabbed the falling guard's rifle mid-air, spun, and fired blindly. He missed the men, but he hit the massive, floor-to-ceiling aquarium that dominated the center of the Sky-Lobby.

CRASH!

Thousands of gallons of water and expensive tropical fish exploded outward in a tidal wave of glass and sea life. The rush of water slammed into the remaining two guards, knocking them off their feet and washing them across the slick marble floor like toys.

One guard slid all the way to the edge of the atrium balcony, flailing, before slipping over the railing with a fading scream.

The other slammed into a pillar, dropping his gun.

Rick stood up, dripping wet (again), holding the stolen rifle. A brightly colored clownfish flopped wetly on the toe of his expensive Italian shoe.

Sharon crawled out of the shredded elevator, her gun raised, looking around wildly. She saw the carnage. The moaning men with broken legs. The water. The fish.

"Did you just..." she panted, staring at the flopping fish. "Did you just weaponize an aquarium?"

"Improvise, adapt, overcome," Rick said, kicking the clownfish back into a puddle. "Johnson! We're clear! Get this car moving again!"

"Working on it!" Johnson yelled in their ears. "That was insane! What happened to the cameras?"

"They got wet," Rick said. "Get us to the Penthouse. Now."

He pulled Sharon back into the elevator, stepping over the debris. The doors shuddered, tried to close, hit a piece of brass railing, opened again, tried again, and finally groaned shut.

The elevator lurched, then began to rise again. 66... 67...

Rick leaned against the mirrored wall, checking his suit. It was wet, but miraculously, no bullet holes. "You know," he said, reloading the stolen rifle, "I'm starting to think Warner doesn't want to talk."

Sharon looked at him. She looked at the rifle. She looked at her own reflection, which was a portrait of PTSD and tactical gear.

She started to laugh. It was a hysterical, bubbling sound she couldn't stop. "We're going to die," she giggled. "We are absolutely, 100% going to die in an elevator wearing a three-piece suit and smelling like a fish market."

"Not yet," Rick said, his eyes fixed on the floor numbers. "We have a date with a boss fight."

Ding.

The elevator stopped. The display read 90. The Penthouse.

The doors didn't slide open immediately. Instead, a voice came over the elevator's intercom. It was Marnus Warner.

"Mr. Smith. Lieutenant Vintner. I must say, your persistence is... annoying. But I suppose I should thank you. You've certainly tested my security protocols. Spoiler alert: they failed. So, I've decided to handle this personally."

The doors slid open.

They weren't facing a hallway. They were facing a massive, opulent living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city.

And in the center of the room, sitting on a white leather couch, was Marnus Warner. He was holding a glass of champagne.

Behind him, suspended from the ceiling by her wrists, her toes barely touching the floor, was Nadia. She was battered, unconscious, and wired to what looked like a very complex, very active bomb vest.

Marnus smiled, raising his glass.

"Welcome to the party," he said. "Please, wipe your feet. The rug is Persian."

Surrounding him were six more men. But these weren't tactical guards. These were... different. They wore strange, high-tech visors over their eyes and held weapons that looked less like guns and more like futuristic prototypes.

Rick stepped out of the elevator, the stolen rifle leveled.

[Ding!]

[System Notification: Boss Battle Initiated!]

[Boss: Marnus Warner & The Elite Guard]

[Objective: Survive.]

Rick sighed. "I hate Persian rugs."

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