The battle was a symphony of violence, conducted in the key of lead and thunder.
Adam moved through the maze of containers like a plague. He didn't stand and fight; he flanked, he ambushed, he disappeared.
A mercenary rounded the corner. Adam was there. He fired two shots—suppressed—dropping the man. He took the man's rifle and grenades.
"Flanking left! Sector 4!" someone shouted over the comms.
Adam wasn't in Sector 4. He was in the ventilation shaft above them.
He dropped a fragmentation grenade down the shaft.
BOOM.
Screams followed.
Adam dropped into the smoke-filled corridor. He engaged three mercenaries. He used the environment—shooting steam pipes to scald them, kicking pallets over to trap them. He was a force of nature, fueled by adrenaline and the memory of Youssef's sacrifice.
He took a hit. A bullet grazed his shoulder, spinning him around. He returned fire instinctively, cutting down the shooter.
He was running out of ammo. He was running out of space.
He retreated into Warehouse 4. It was a vast, empty space, filled with the echo of the rain hammering on the tin roof.
He stood in the center of the room. He reloaded his pistols. He placed the last of his explosives at the entrance.
He waited.
The shooting outside stopped. The silence was heavier than the noise.
"Adam!" Vargo's voice boomed over a megaphone. "You are alone! You are injured! This is pointless!"
Adam stayed silent.
"We have your journalist!" Vargo shouted.
Adam's heart skipped a beat. He looked toward the warehouse doors.
A spotlight clicked on, blindingly bright, shining through the grimy windows. In the light, a figure was dragged forward. It was a woman. Leila.
She was battered, her face bruised, her hands zip-tied. Two mercenaries held her.
"No," Adam whispered.
"Surrender," Vargo said, stepping into the light, "or she dies. Right here. Right now."
Adam holstered his guns. He walked toward the door, his hands raised.
He knew Vargo would kill them both anyway. But he had to get close.
He pushed open the warehouse door. He stepped into the rain, the spotlight pinning him like a bug on a specimen board.
Vargo stood fifty feet away, flanked by a dozen remaining mercenaries. He held a pistol to Leila's head.
"Drop the weapons," Vargo ordered.
Adam dropped the pistols. He kicked them away.
"On your knees."
Adam hesitated. He looked at Leila. Her eyes were wide with terror, but she shook her head slightly. Don't do it.
Adam dropped to his knees. The mud soaked his pants.
Vargo smiled. "Good. Now, we end this."
Vargo raised his gun to aim at Adam's forehead.
Adam's right hand, which was hidden behind his thigh, triggered a small remote he held.
The explosives he had planted inside the spotlight tower detonated.
The massive metal light array groaned and collapsed, crashing down between Vargo and Leila. The distraction was instantaneous.
Adam moved. He didn't go for his guns; he had dropped them. He pulled a concealed knife from his boot and threw it.
It flew through the rain and buried itself in the throat of the mercenary holding Leila. As the man fell, Leila kicked the other mercenary in the groin and scrambled away into the darkness of the containers.
Adam scrambled to his feet, sprinting toward the mercenary's line. He tackled the nearest one, taking his rifle.
The warehouse complex erupted into gunfire again. But the discipline was broken. The mercenaries were firing blind, confused by the collapsing light tower.
Adam found cover behind a forklift. He was exposed. He was out of grenades.
And then, he heard it.
The deep, rhythmic thumping of rotors.
A helicopter rose over the edge of the port, its searchlight sweeping the chaos.
It wasn't a police helicopter. It had no markings. A heavy machine gun was mounted on the side.
"Karim sends his regards," a voice crackled over the radio Adam had taken from the dead mercenary.
The helicopter opened fire.
Bullets tore into the forklift, shredding the metal. Adam threw himself flat, the mud exploding around him.
He was pinned down. Outgunned. Outmanned.
He looked toward the sea. The waves crashed against the breakwater.
There was nowhere left to run.