I’d Been Told I Was Paralyzed for Fourteen Months—Then One Housemaid Made Me Feel My Leg and Whispered, “You Felt That.” / Chapter 56 / 60

Chapter 56 - Ambush at the Dry Docks

The mercenary leveled his rifle at Martha’s forehead. "Hands where I can see them, lady. How do you have the neural an—"

He never finished the sentence.

CRASH!

The brick wall behind the soldiers exploded inward as the heavy utility truck slammed through the structure in a shower of mortar and shattered timber. The impact crushed two mercenaries against an iron support pillar, tossing the third onto the concrete floor.

Maxwell vaulted out of the cab before the dust settled. Two muted pops from his suppressed pistol dropped the surviving operative where he lay.

"Martha, out!" Maxwell roared, dragging her toward the driver's side as gunfire erupted from the alley outside.

"The antidote!" she yelled.

"I tossed the medical director the entire kit!" Maxwell replied, throwing the truck into reverse and tearing through the ruined alleyway toward the shipyard gates.

Sirens wailed across the docks. High-intensity halogen searchlights snapped on along the cranes, cutting through the fog like glaring lances. Meridian’s quick-reaction force had mobilized.

Maxwell floored the accelerator, ramming the utility truck straight through the reinforced chain-link gates of Pier Four. The vehicle skidded across the rain-slicked asphalt, coming to rest at an angle that formed a barricade against incoming fire.

Automatic rounds chewed through the truck’s panels.

"Martha, take Crane Three!" Maxwell ordered, returning fire with short, controlled bursts from his HK416, dropping three mercenaries advancing from a container stack. "Get the high ground! Sever their line of sight to the freighter!"

Martha didn't hesitate. She rolled out of the truck, sprinted through the shadows of the container canyon, and scrambled up the steel rungs of the thirty-meter crane. Her tactical training under Maxwell had honed her agility into a weapon.

On the ground, Maxwell dismantled the PMC squad with ruthless precision. He was a force of nature. He used the steel containers as acoustic baffles, firing, repositioning, and flanking. When his carbine ran dry, he closed the distance on a charging mercenary, parried the rifle barrel, drove a combat knife beneath the man’s ballistic vest, and used the falling body to absorb a volley of buckshot from a second attacker before eliminating him with his sidearm.

High above, Martha racked the bolt of her sniper rifle.

Crack. A machine gunner on the bridge of the Calypso Star collapsed over the rail.

Crack. An operative attempting to mount a heavy vehicle turret fell dead onto the pavement.

With Martha controlling the killing field from the sky and Maxwell advancing like an unstoppable titan on the ground, the perimeter collapsed in minutes.

Maxwell reached the blast doors of the subterranean drydock bunker—the primary synthesizing lab. He slapped two blocks of C4 onto the heavy hinges, primed the receiver, and stepped back around the corner.