Then the alarms began screaming.
Confusion spread through the Syndicate guards.
At that exact moment, Nomad launched the frontal assault.
The main gates crashed open.
Nearly forty motorcycles charged into the yard with their headlights blazing.
Engines roared.
Gunfire exploded through the night.
The mercenaries scrambled toward the front entrance, concentrating almost their entire defensive force against the furious attack.
Meanwhile, Cole and Wyatt slipped through the underground drainage system.
The tunnels were wet, cramped, and filled with the stench of rusting metal and industrial chemicals.
They moved silently through the darkness.
Like two ghosts.
Any guard unfortunate enough to cross their path was taken down quietly before he could raise an alarm.
Deeper inside the facility, they reached the heart of the old metalworks.
The abandoned foundry.
A dull red glow flickered across the room from several steel barrels burning with fire.
Cole pressed himself against a concrete pillar and looked around the corner.
A man had been suspended from an enormous industrial pulley system by heavy steel chains.
Beneath the unstable firelight, Cole recognized the figure immediately.
Eight years had changed him.
His face was swollen and disfigured from brutal torture.
His hair had turned gray.
His body was thinner than Cole remembered.
His white undershirt was soaked dark red with blood.
But there was no mistaking him.
Rravhem.
Four Syndicate soldiers stood around him.
One held an iron bar.
Another carried an electric baton.
A third had a pair of pliers.
They were preparing for another round of interrogation.
Cole looked at Wyatt.
No words were necessary.
Wyatt gave a single nod.
Cole stepped out of the darkness and raised his suppressed .45.
Pfft.
Pfft.
Pfft.
Pfft.
Four muffled shots.
Four precise hits.
The men dropped onto the cold concrete before any of them could make a sound.
Wyatt rushed forward.
He grabbed a heavy bolt cutter and snapped through the steel restraints.
Rravhem dropped.
Cole and Wyatt caught him before he hit the floor.
Rravhem began coughing violently.
Fresh blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
Slowly, his hazel eyes opened.
He struggled to focus through the dim light.
“Cole...?”
His voice was weak and broken.
Barely more than the dying breath of the desert wind.
“Jesus... am I dreaming?”
His cracked lips twitched into the faintest smile.
“You... you got old.”
Cole gave a rough laugh.
Tears filled the corners of his weathered eyes.
His throat tightened.
“And you look like a pile of old rags, brother.”