I rise, panting, and take in my surroundings. The air is different here. This must be Silvio's personal office. My HUD auto-adjusts, amplifying the faint city glow that slips through a cracked window. I discern a large wooden desk against one wall, a shattered computer monitor on top. Papers are strewn across the floor amidst overturned chairs and broken glass.
There was a fight here too, or at least a thorough search. My stomach knots, if Snake-Oil's men tossed this place, they may have taken anything valuable. Still, maybe they missed something in their haste.
Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the room in stark white for a split second. In that flash I see dark splatters on the rug, blood. The memory slams into me: Silvio's face on the screen, the gunshot, his head jerking aside… I squeeze my eyes shut. Could that blood be Silvio's? Or someone else's who resisted here? Doesn't matter now. Focus.
I limp to the desk and yank open drawers. Empty. Another drawer, nothing but a half-empty whiskey bottle rolling around. I pocket it without thinking; could use a swig later if I live. My hands leave smears of blood on the polished wood. One drawer is locked, the top left. Of course it is. I could shoot it open, but the noise would draw attention faster. The lock is cheap; it pops after a couple of hard twists.
Inside, there's a single item: a small data shard, glinting dull blue in the gloom. I snatch it and slip it securely into an inner pocket of my coat. Heavy thudding footsteps echo from somewhere outside the office, coming down the hall or up stairs. I'm running out of time.
As I scan for another exit, a low groan catches my ear. I freeze, every sense on high alert. The sound came from the far corner of the office, behind an upturned cabinet. Cautiously, I step closer, raising the pistol in my off-hand.
"Who's there?" I rasp.
Another groan, then a strained whisper: "Bale…? That you?"
That voice... I step around the fallen cabinet, and my heart lurches. Slumped against the wall, arms tied behind his back and face swollen with bruises, is Martinez. Silvio's right-hand man. He's alive, barely by the look of him.
"Christ, Martinez." I holster the pistol and kneel, ignoring the scream of my own injuries. I quickly scan him: He's been beaten badly. One eye swollen shut, lip split, blood crusted along his temple. His legs are bound at the ankles with zip-ties, arms similarly secured behind the post of an old shelving unit.
He blinks blearily at me, struggling to focus. "Bale… I thought I heard…" His voice is a rasp. "Thought I was dreaming. You… alive, cabrón?" A hint of his trademark bravado flickers even now.
"More or less," I grunt. "Hold still." Martinez gasps as his arms fall free, the sudden circulation causing him to wince. I move to his ankles and thore those binds as well.
He exhales in relief, rubbing raw, chafed wrists. "Took your sweet time," he manages, attempting a wry smirk. It quickly turns to a grimace of pain.
I can't help a short, breathless chuckle. "Good to see you too." I haul him up as gently as I can. He's a heavy son of a bitch, built like a bull but right now he can barely put weight on one leg. He leans on me, coughing.
"How..." he starts, then wheezes. I hand him the whiskey bottle I swiped. "Here."
Martinez pops the cap with bloodied hands and takes a swig. He coughs again, but some color returns to his face. "Gracias." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks me in the eye. His one good eye flickers with a mix of astonishment and relief. "I thought you were dead, Bale. After that warehouse… And then when these bastards hit us… Hell, maybe I am dead and this is a bad dream."
"Not dead. Not yet," I say, peering toward the office door. It's cracked open, leading to a hallway that's likely crawling with Snake-Oil's mercs by now. We don't have long.
Martinez follows my gaze and tenses. "We gotta move. They…" He swallows, seems to gather himself. "They took over everything, pendejos. Hit us hard and fast this morning. I tried to fight, but… well." He gestures vaguely at his broken state. "I think they kept me as a hostage or some sick trophy. Silvio-" His voice hitches on the name.
I grip his shoulder. "I know." My voice is rough. "They executed him."
Martinez closes his eyes, and for a moment I see the pain of loss overcome even his physical agony. When he opens them, there's a fierce hatred burning there. "Hijo de puta. We'll make that cabrón pay."
"Count on it." I heft the rifle and offer it to him. "Can you shoot?"
Martinez manages a ragged grin, wiping a streak of blood from his cheek. "Try and stop me." He takes the AKR-20, checks the chamber with the practiced ease of a veteran. "Damn, Silvio's own gun," he notes, recognizing the model, likely one of ours from the armory. "Alright." He braces himself.
I hand the mag to Martinez. He nods in thanks and slams it home into the rifle.
We edge toward the office door. I pick up an extra pistol from the ground, one of those sleek corporate models I fancied earlier and press it into Martinez's hand as a sidearm. Two guns are better than one, and he might need a backup if the rifle runs dry.
Outside in the corridor, I catch muffled voices and the tromp of boots. They're systematically clearing rooms. The exit route I used is known to them, so they'll converge here soon.
Martinez pats his hand on a bookshelf at the back of the office. "Silvio's secret exit," he whispers, jerking his chin toward the shelf.
I recall a long time ago Silvio bragging about an "ace up his sleeve" in case of a raid. Never showed it to me, but Martinez would know. I move to the tall bookshelf, half the books are already knocked off from the earlier ransack. Martinez shoves aside a file box to reveal a biometric panel hidden in the wall behind the shelf. It's shattered, looks like someone tried to hack or destroy it, maybe to prevent any escape.
"Bastards disabled it," Martinez growls under his breath. "We might have to do this the noisy way."
"What's the secret exit? A tunnel? Door to outside?"
He coughs. "Old sewer access. Leads out a few blocks from here. If we can get in, we can vanish."
I nod. That's our ticket if it's still passable. I inspect the outline of what must be the secret door next to the bookshelf. There's a faint seam in the wall. The biometric lock is busted, but perhaps brute force can pry it open.
From the hallway, a harsh voice: "Check Silvio's office!" My blood runs cold. We're out of time.
I motion Martinez to get behind the fallen cabinet for cover. I step to the side of the doorway, flattening against the wall just as heavy boots stomp right outside. A barrel pokes in, attached to a flashlight beam. Two mercs flood into the office, guns sweeping.
The first sees me at the last second. I drive my knife up into his armpit where there's a gap in his armor. He gurgles as I twist; his finger clenches the trigger reflexively and a burst of gunfire stitches the ceiling. The second merc spins toward the sound, only to catch a burst from Martinez's AK. The rounds tear into the man's torso, spraying blood across Silvio's desk.
The one I stabbed is still writhing on the floor, so I put a bullet in his skull. The room falls quiet again except for our ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears. They'll have heard that too, no doubt, but we've got a tiny window.