Chapter 19
The convoy of black SUVs tore through the winding, heavily forested mountain roads of the Catskills. The rain was torrential, washing out the dirt paths and turning the terrain into a treacherous mudslide. In the lead vehicle, Stallone sat in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the impenetrable darkness ahead. In the back, Richard Sterling sat handcuffed, groaning in pain as the SUV hit deep ruts in the road.
"Take the next left," Sterling wheezed, leaning his head against the reinforced glass. "It’s an unmarked logging trail. Keep going until you hit the rock face."
The driver yanked the steering wheel, plunging the heavy vehicle off the paved road and into the dense forest. The headlights cut through the rain, illuminating massive pines and thick underbrush. They drove for ten agonizing minutes until the trail abruptly ended at a sheer, imposing cliff of solid gray granite.
"We're here," Sterling said.
Stallone kicked his door open and stepped out into the freezing rain, drawing his heavy pistol. His men spilled out of the other vehicles, instantly securing the perimeter with military precision. Victor hauled Sterling out of the back seat by his collar, dragging the wounded billionaire through the mud toward the rock face.
At first glance, it was just a solid wall of stone. But as they approached, the outline of a massive, seamlessly integrated steel blast door became visible, painted and textured to mimic the surrounding granite. To the right of the door, sheltered by a small rock overhang, was a sleek, glowing biometric terminal.
"Open it," Stallone ordered, shoving Sterling toward the panel.
Sterling staggered, clutching his bandaged wrist. He looked at the heavy steel door, then at Stallone’s cold, unforgiving eyes. He knew he was opening his own tomb, but the alternative was a prolonged, agonizing torture.
Trembling, Sterling placed his uninjured left hand flat onto the glowing glass scanner. A green laser instantly swept across his palm. Then, he leaned forward, aligning his right eye with a small reticle lens.
Biometric scan initiated, a synthesized female voice echoed from the terminal. Pulse verified. Retinal match confirmed. Identity: Richard Sterling. Welcome.
With a deep, subterranean rumble that shook the ground beneath their feet, the massive steel blast door hissed, breaking a pressurized seal. It slowly groaned open, revealing a long, brightly lit concrete tunnel leading deep into the mountain.
Stallone didn't wait. He surged past Sterling, sprinting down the concrete tunnel, his pistol raised. Victor shoved Sterling inside and followed closely behind, the rest of the squad fanning out.
At the end of the tunnel was a large, sterile white room. In the center of the room, surrounded by thick, bulletproof glass, was a cell. Inside the cell, lying motionless on a narrow cot, was a man with graying hair and a thick, unkempt beard. He looked frail, deeply malnourished, and broken by years of isolation.
Stallone stopped dead in his tracks, dropping his pistol onto the concrete floor. The weapon clattered loudly.
"Vincent," Stallone whispered, his voice cracking with a decade of suppressed grief.
The man on the cot slowly opened his eyes. He turned his head, squinting against the bright lights. When his gaze fell upon the towering figure standing outside the glass, his eyes widened in sheer disbelief.
May you like
"Sly?" Vincent rasped, his voice weak and raspy from years of disuse. "Is... is that you?"
Stallone slammed his fists against the bulletproof glass, tears mixing with the rain on his face. "I'm here, Vinnie. I'm getting you out. You're going home."
