I Am the Devil of This Hell

Chapter 092

Kane Adler remained anchored to his seat for a full thirty minutes after Fenris had vanished into the swirling sleet of Jersey City. He sat in the fading warmth of the restaurant, his fingers tracing the rim of his empty porcelain cup, his mind a tactical map of the surrounding blocks. Only when the adrenaline of the meeting had settled into a cold, hard resolve did he push back his chair and signal the others with a sharp, dismissive wave of his hand.

"Let’s move," he commanded.

Owen, Elias Thorne, and Marcus Grady converged on him instantly, their silhouettes flanking him like a phalanx as they navigated the hushed elegance of the dining room toward the heavy brass exit. Marcus, ever the kinetic energy of the group, scanned the street through the glass doors with a practiced, predatory squint.

"Brother Kane," Marcus whispered as they stepped into the foyer. "What kind of game is this kid playing? It’s been half an hour and the street looks like a normal Tuesday. No movement, no tails. You think he called off the hitters to save them for the timberlands?"

Kane’s eyes were cold as they adjusted to the gray afternoon light. "Maybe. It’s possible he’s prioritizing the ritual of the woods. But it’s more likely he’s waiting for the exact moment our guard drops. It’s 1:00 PM. The lunch rush is thinning out. The crowds are just sparse enough for a clean shot but thick enough to provide a getaway. Stay sharp."

Owen adjusted his collar, his Hyper-Realistic Silicone Mask showing a flicker of concern. "Brother Kane, they clearly know our position at the Sunrise Projects. Their intelligence network is tighter than we anticipated."

"Don't let it rattle you," Kane replied, his voice a low rumble. "Any group of death-row survivors is going to have a few technical geniuses. The Deep State didn't pick us to unify the national underworld because we were easy to track. We’re up against the Old Guard now; they have roots. Elias, patch through to Jackson Hayes. Tell the team not to return to the treeline yet. We’ll hole up in a high-end hotel in the city center. Even a maniac like Fenris won't risk a full-scale assault on a luxury plaza—he doesn't have the stomach for that kind of federal heat yet."

As they stepped out onto the sidewalk of the bustling thoroughfare, the biting wind of the Heartland whipped at their coats. Elias reached into his pocket to pull out his encrypted phone, his eyes momentarily drifting across the street.

Suddenly, the world slowed down. Elias, an expert in high-end ballistics and The Drake Protocol, caught a glint of light from the rooftop of the department store directly opposite them. It wasn't the soft reflection of the winter sun on glass or steel; it was the sharp, focused prismatic glint of a high-magnification optic.

A sniper.

"SNIPER!" Elias screamed, the word tearing through the quiet street like a serrated blade.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Elias lunged, his entire body weight slamming into Kane to drive him toward the pavement. In the same micro-second, a sickening c***k echoed off the surrounding buildings—the sound of a high-velocity round breaking the sound barrier.

A spray of vivid, hot crimson erupted from Elias’s shoulder, splattering across the sidewalk and Kane’s coat.

"Elias!" Kane roared, his heart hammering against his ribs as he hit the concrete. He scrambled to his knees, catching the collapsing Elias before he hit the ground.

"Brother Kane, move!" Marcus bellowed. He knew the rhythm of a professional marksman; the second shot would be chambered and ready within heartbeats. Driven by a desperate, selfless instinct, Marcus grabbed Kane by the harness of his tactical vest and, with a guttural shout of exertion, literally threw Kane and the bleeding Elias behind the chassis of a parked SUV.

As Marcus threw himself after them, a second c***k tore through the air. Marcus’s body jerked violently in mid-air. A jagged hole appeared in the center of his back, and a spray of blood painted a tragic, arcing trail across the asphalt.

"No!" Kane’s voice was a raw, primal scream of agony and rage. The sight of Marcus—the "Fox" who had survived the East Wing—crumpling like a broken doll triggered a transformation in Kane. The calculated leader vanished, replaced by the wounded beast of the Shadow Eagle Clan.

Ignoring the lethal line of sight, Kane lunged out from behind the vehicle with the speed of a hunting leopard. He scooped Marcus’s limp form into his arms and rolled back into the cover of the SUV just as a third round struck the pavement where he had been a split-second before. The impact sent a cloud of pulverized concrete and dust into the air, peppering his face with grit.

The street, previously a scene of mundane city life, erupted into pure, unadulterated chaos. The first few seconds of stunned silence were shattered by a chorus of high-pitched screams. Pedestrians dropped to the ground, shielding their heads with trembling hands; others bolted in blind terror, creating a frantic, stampeding wall of humanity.

Kane didn't look at the crowd. He was hunched over his fallen Brothers, his hands flying over their wounds with the frantic precision of a battlefield medic. Elias was gasping, his face a mask of ashen pain, his left scapula shattered by the round—agonizing, but not fatal. But Marcus... the bullet had punched straight through his right lung. He was pale, his breathing a wet, bubbling rasp, drifting rapidly toward the void.

Kane threw his head back and let out a long, terrifying howl of fury—a sound so hollow and violent that the shivering civilians nearby recoiled in horror. It was the sound of a man who had left his humanity behind in the Confinement Death Ward.

He laid Marcus down gently, his eyes fixed on the department store rooftop with a murderous intensity. He began to rise, his muscles tensed to sprint toward the source of the fire, intent on tearing the shooter apart with his bare hands.

Owen slammed his hand onto Kane’s chest, pinning him against the car. " Brother Kane! Stay down! If you go out there, you’re dead! He’s zeroed in on the car!"

"I’m going to kill him," Kane hissed, his teeth bared in a snarl. "I’m going to tear his throat out!"

"You have to save Marcus!" Elias choked out, his right hand gripping his shattered shoulder. "I’m okay... but he’s fading. Brother Kane, don't walk into a trap. They want you to charge. There are likely more of them inside the store."

Kane forced himself to take a jagged breath, fighting back the Bloodlust that threatened to consume his reason. He looked at Marcus’s closed eyes and then at Owen.

"Get Dante Romero and the others here NOW!" Kane commanded, his voice shaking with suppressed violence. He turned his gaze back to Owen, who was the most shadow-like of them all—the man known as Silas Rivers in the darker circles, the Venom of the team. " Silas, get to that rooftop. I don't care how you do it. Bring me that bastard’s head."

Owen gave a single, solemn nod. "He’s as good as dead, Brother Kane."

"Go!"

Owen stripped off his heavy overcoat, revealing a streamlined tactical kit. He waited for the rhythm of the crowd’s movement, then hurled his coat into the open air as a decoy. A split second later, a bullet tore through the fabric, sending it spinning into the gutter. In that heartbeat of distraction, Owen was a blur of motion. He rolled across the pavement, weaving through the screaming masses and disappearing into the side entrance of the department store.

Inside, the mall was a contrast of eerie normalcy and growing panic. People near the windows were beginning to realize the c*****e outside, but the interior was still populated by shoppers oblivious to the war on the street.

Owen didn't take the stairs. He sprinted for the express elevator, drawing a Bowie Knife from a hidden sheath. The blade gleamed with a cold, silver light. He reached the elevator bank just as a group of terrified teenagers were trying to scramble inside.

He shoved his way in, his face a mask of lethal intent. As the doors began to slide shut, the people inside saw the blood on his shirt and the bared steel in his hand. One woman started to scream, but Owen turned his gaze on her—a gaze filled with the cold, dark energy of the Hades Crew.

"Quiet," he whispered, the word more chilling than any shout.

The woman’s voice died in her throat. The occupants of the elevator huddled into the corner, weeping in silence as the floor indicator climbed toward the roof. Owen ignored them, checking the action on his sidearm and tightening his grip on the knife.

On the street below, Kane Adler knelt in the blood of his friends, a fallen king in a city of glass, waiting for the sound of the reckoning to begin.