THE HANDYMAN'S REVENGE

The deafening crack of a high-caliber round echoed violently through the confined masonry tube, the bullet chipping a violent spray of concrete dust from the archway just inches above my head.

I dropped instantly to one knee, bringing my Sig Sauer up and squeezing off two controlled shots toward the muzzle flash in the distance. The sharp report of my weapon sounded like artillery fire in the enclosed vault, followed by the sound of rapid, splashing footsteps retreating further into the blackness.

“You missed, Julian!” I shouted into the damp void, my voice steady and cold. “Your hands are shaking. That’s what happens when you spend a decade behind a desk instead of in the field!”

“You think this is about field work?” Julian’s voice floated back, laced with a bitter, venomous hatred that seemed to vibrate off the wet brick walls. “You took all the credit when we built Apex Security, Daniel! You walked away with forty-two million dollars while the rest of us did the dirty work in Eastern Europe, cleaning up your government-sponsored messes!”

“I built that company from the ground up with my own capital,” I replied, advancing slowly along the edge of the dry concrete ledge beside the water channel, my tactical light sweeping back and forth across the dripping walls. “And you chose to turn it into a criminal syndicate.”

“Criminal?” Julian laughed harshly. “It’s called evolution, Daniel. The world doesn't pay people to install deadbolts anymore. It pays people who control the data. And Victor Hale was just a very convenient tool to extract what belonged to us.”

Suddenly, the beam of my tactical light caught a movement ahead—a dark figure slipping behind one of the massive brick support pillars where the old rail spur intersected with the municipal intake pipes.

I didn't hesitate. I lunged forward, bridging the gap between the ledge and the pillar just as Julian stepped out with his weapon raised.

We collided in mid-air, crashing hard against the damp brick wall. The pistol flew from Julian’s hand, clattering away into the dark water of the drainage canal with a dull splash.

Julian was younger, faster, and driven by a desperate, maniacal rage. He drove his elbow hard into my ribs, knocking the wind from my lungs, and shoved me backward toward the edge of the water channel.

I caught my balance on the slick slime of the ledge, ducked under a wild right hook, and drove a sharp, punishing uppercut straight into his midsection. Julian doubled over, gasping for air, his face pale in the dim glow of my weapon light.

Before he could recover, I swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing flat onto his back in the shallow, rushing water of the drainage canal.

I pressed the heavy boot of my tactical boot firmly down onto his chest, pinning him into the murky water, and leveled my Sig Sauer directly between his eyes.

“It’s over, Julian,” I whispered, the cold barrel hovering just inches from his forehead. “The bunker has your files. The federal agents have your bank accounts. You’re done.”