The Blood Tax

Chapter 5: The Edge of Abyss

​"If you touch her again, I will personally tear your throat out of your neck."

​The words cut through the frigid, stale air of the abandoned warehouse like a declaration of death. The syndicate lieutenant froze, his hand stopping inches away from Meira's bruised face. The two armed guards instantly swung their automatic rifles toward the shadows near the rusty industrial machinery, their fingers tightening against the triggers.

​Meira gasped, her tear-stained eyes widening as she recognized the gravelly, dark tone of the voice. "Bisma? No, it cannot be you. You are dead."

​"Who goes there?" the lieutenant shouted, stepping back from the metal chair and drawing his tactical pistol. "Show yourself right now, or I will put a bullet through her head before you take another step."

​Bisma walked out into the flickering light, his posture perfectly rigid despite the dark blood soaking through his torn suit jacket. His pale face was expressionless, his eyes locked onto the lieutenant with an intensity that made the hardened criminal take another involuntary step backward. He held his tactical knife loosely in his right hand, the steel blade catching the dim illumination from the hanging bulb.

​"I told you what would happen if you touched her," Bisma said, his voice flat and devoid of human warmth. "You should have listened to my warning."

​The lieutenant stared at him, his mouth slightly open in absolute disbelief. "Bisma? Zuan told us he watched you bleed out in the slaughterhouse. You are supposed to be a corpse at the bottom of a frozen ditch."

​"The ghost of your mistakes has arrived to settle the account," Bisma replied, taking a slow, calculated step forward.

​"Kill him!" the lieutenant screamed, waving his pistol frantically. "Shoot him now!"

​The guard on the left opened fire first, the loud muzzle flashes lighting up the dark corners of the warehouse. But Bisma was already moving, his heavily medicated body responding with artificial speed. He lunged to the side, rolling over a pile of old wooden crates as a hail of bullets tore through the pine boards behind him. The pain blocker in his system kept his focus razor-sharp, completely suppressed the agony of his tearing stitches.

​He emerged from the roll right next to the first guard. Before the man could reposition his rifle, Bisma drove his tactical blade upward, driving it deep underneath the guard's jawline. The steel pierced cleanly, silencing the man instantly. Bisma twisted the handle, pulled the blade out, and used the falling body as a human shield as the second guard turned to fire.

​"Get out of the way!" the second guard yelled, his bullets ripping into his partner's tactical vest.

​Bisma didn't give him a second chance. He hurled the dead weight of the first guard forward, knocking the shooter off balance. In a fraction of a second, Bisma closed the distance, his boots skidding across the crimson-stained concrete. He gripped the second guard's rifle barrel with his stiff, reconstructed left hand, forcing the weapon upward toward the ceiling as it discharged a useless burst into the iron rafters.

​"You are nothing but a dead man walking," the guard snarled, trying to reach for a sidearm with his free hand.

​"Then look closely at the man who is sending you to hell," Bisma whispered.

​With a swift, brutal turn, Bisma snapped the guard's wrist with his left hand, forcing a sharp crack to echo through the empty room. As the man yelled in agony, Bisma swung his right hand, slicing the jagged tactical knife across the guard's throat. The man collapsed heavily onto his knees, his hands clutching his neck as he slid onto the cold floor.

​Bisma turned his attention back to the center of the room. The lieutenant was backing away toward a raised metallic platform near the rear wall, holding his pistol with trembling hands. Meira remained tied tightly to the heavy chair, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as she watched the sudden, silent slaughter.

​"Stay back, Bisma!" the lieutenant screamed, his voice cracking with pure panic. "Do not move another inch, or I swear I will pull this trigger and take her down with me!"

​"Look at your hands," Bisma said, his voice completely calm as he walked forward, his bloody boots leaving dark prints on the concrete. "They are shaking. You have already lost your target alignment."

​"I will kill her!" the lieutenant shouted, aiming the barrel directly at Meira's chest. "I swear to God I will do it!"

​"You will try," Bisma replied, his eyes narrowing.

​In a desperate move, the lieutenant fired three rapid shots toward Bisma's chest. Bisma twisted his torso, but one of the bullets grazed his shoulder, tearing through the fabric and opening a fresh line of heat across his skin. The momentum did not stop him. Bisma hurled his tactical knife across the remaining distance with absolute precision. The heavy steel blade spun through the air, embedding itself deeply into the lieutenant's right shoulder.

​The lieutenant screamed, dropping his pistol as his arm went completely limp. He stumbled backward against a control console on the wall, gasping for air as he clutched the protruding handle of the knife.

​Bisma closed the distance in a silent blur. He grabbed the lieutenant by the front of his leather jacket, slamming his head violently against the iron edge of the console. The man's eyes rolled back, and he slumped down to the floor, unconscious but alive.

​The warehouse fell into a sudden, suffocating silence, broken only by the steady hum of the old electrical generator and the howling wind outside the walls. Bisma stood over the fallen faksi operatives, his chest heaving as the extreme exertion pushed his physical limits. The dark red stain on his white dress shirt had grown much larger, the warm blood soaking through his trousers from his reopened thigh wound. He ignored it completely, turning his gaze toward the woman tied to the chair.

​"Meira," Bisma said softly, his voice finally losing a fraction of its icy edge.

​"Bisma, oh my god, it really is you," Meira sobbed, her entire body shaking as the tears finally poured freely down her bruised cheeks. "They told me you were dead. Zuan said he handled you personally. Your face, your hands, what did they do to you?"

​"That does not matter right now," Bisma replied, walking toward her with slow, steady steps. "I am here to get you out. The syndicate cannot touch you anymore."

​"You need to leave, Bisma," Meira pleaded, her eyes darting around the dark room in sudden panic. "Zuan said something about a trap before he hung up the phone. He knew someone might follow them here."

​"I am not leaving without you," Bisma stated firmly, reaching his hands out toward the heavy nylon ropes binding her wrists to the metal frame of the chair.

​Just as his fingers made contact with the first knot, a sharp, high-pitched electronic beep echoed through the silent warehouse.

​Bisma froze instantly, his eyes snapping down toward the underside of the heavy iron chair. Concealed directly beneath the seat panel was a small, black plastic box that had just illuminated with a bright, crimson light. A digital grid of numbers flickered into existence, showing a rapid countdown sequence. A motion-sensor module attached to the side of the box was pulsing green, triggered by Bisma's close proximity to the chair.

​"What is that sound?" Meira asked, her voice rising in absolute terror as she felt the vibration beneath her seat.

​"Do not move, Meira," Bisma commanded, his eyes fixed on the digital display.

​The numbers on the screen were dropping at an impossible speed. The timer did not give them minutes or even a standard protocol of seconds to disarm the mechanism. It was a localized execution trap, designed specifically to eliminate anyone who attempted a physical rescue.

​The digital counter displayed a single digit: 3.

​Simultaneously, a heavy, thunderous sound boomed from the perimeter of the warehouse. The automated steel emergency shutters over the windows and the primary loading doors slammed downward with immense force, locking into place with a series of loud, pneumatic clicks. The facility was completely sealed from the outside, transforming the rusted iron structure into a closed steel tomb.

​"The doors are locked, Bisma!" Meira screamed, her eyes wide with the realization of death. "We are trapped inside!"

​Bisma looked at the countdown timer as it dropped to 2. There was no time to untie the complex knots, no time to cut the ropes, and no way to carry the heavy iron chair across the room to a safe distance. The explosive device was designed to shatter everything within a thirty-foot radius.

​He looked directly into Meira's panicked eyes, his mind working with the clinical efficiency Keller's training had drilled into him. He didn't look at the exit. He looked at a large, heavy tactical steel shield leaning against the adjacent concrete pillar, left behind by the warehouse security detail.

​"Bisma, please run, save yourself!" Meira shouted as the digital display flickered into its final sequence.

​Bisma grabbed the massive steel shield with his left hand and threw his entire body directly over her chair, pinning her beneath his own mass as the timer hit the final mark.

​"Hold your breath and stay down, Meira!" Bisma roared, bracing his boots against the concrete floor as the countdown dropped to zero.