Chapter 39 - The Counter-Offensive
Damon’s eyes locked onto the screen.
**PROJECT APEX: ARCHIVE LIQUIDATION.**
**ASSET: GHOST-SIX (BIOMETRIC, GENETIC, AND COMBAT PROFILES).**
**STATUS: LIVE BIDDING IN 10 MINUTES.**
"The Hague seized my Swiss accounts three days ago," Mercer said calmly, as if discussing the quarterly yield of a mutual fund. "The United States government wants me erased to cover up their black-budget black sites. I need liquid capital to disappear to a non-extradition jurisdiction. Do you know how much a private military contractor in Eastern Europe or an intelligence agency in the Gulf will pay for the complete biological and psychological blueprint of the Ghost-Six program?"
"You're selling my identity," Damon said, the rifle barrel not dipping a millimeter.
"I'm selling your DNA, your combat telemetry, your psychological evaluations, and the identities of everyone you've ever protected," Mercer smiled coldly. "Once this auction completes, every rogue state and cartel you ever crossed will have the home addresses of Sarah’s parents, your former squadmates, and little Toby. You won't just be running from me, Damon. You'll be running from the entire planet."
"Cancel the upload," Damon ordered.
"It can't be canceled," Mercer sneered. "It's hardcoded into a distributed blockchain server. The only way to stop the broadcast is to destroy the satellite uplink transmitter on the dredge's main crane tower before the countdown reaches zero."
Mercer checked his platinum watch. "You have eight minutes. But of course... you can't be in two places at once."
Mercer pressed a small red button on his cufflink.
Beneath the floor of the dredge, a heavy hydraulic door hissed open.
From the darkened cargo hold below, two massive figures stepped into the red light of the cabin. They weren't standard mercenaries. They were over six-foot-six, wearing heavy titanium-composite armor, their faces hidden behind ballistic iron masks. In their hands, they carried heavy 12-gauge automated assault shotguns.
"Meet the next generation," Mercer whispered, stepping backward toward an emergency exit hatch that led to an armored speedboat tied to the stern. "They don't have your conscience, Damon. They don't have your soul. They are purely what you used to be."
The two armored juggernauts raised their weapons simultaneously.
Damon didn't try to shoot their armor. He fired three rounds directly into the heavy steel crane cable suspended above them. The 5.56mm rounds severed the tension wire, sending a three-hundred-pound iron pulley crashing down onto the first juggernaut’s helmet, driving him to the floor in a shower of sparks.
Damon rolled behind the reinforced steel console as the second juggernaut opened fire.
A hail of high-explosive 12-gauge fragmentation rounds obliterated the radio equipment, sending flaming shards of circuit boards and plastic raining across the room. The concussive blasts ruptured Damon's eardrums, but his focus remained absolute.
He checked his wrist timer: **00:06:12**.
Six minutes before his family's existence was broadcast to every cartel and terror network on earth.
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Damon pulled a thermal smoke grenade from his vest, popped the pin, and threw it directly into the shotgun's muzzle flash.
***
