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Chapter One Hundred And Seventy Six

The sound of gunshots reverberated around the deserted warehouse. Mrs. Janeth huddled behind a stack of boxes, her heart a frenzied drum solo on her ribs. Angry lights shooting from across the room revealed dust motes dancing in the air. George's security system, a well-oiled apparatus refined for just these kinds of circumstances, was engaged in a vicious dance with Armstrong's men.

The sharp sting of cordite and the metallic flavour of gunpowder filled the air. Mrs Janeth heard bullets squeak past her head and sink into the corrugated metal walls with a horrible thud. The guttural roar of automatic guns and the anguished screams of the injured broke the staccato pattern of firing.

Colonel Petrov and his tactical battalion proceeded with well-honed precision across the large, open area. Their motions were lethal and precise, like those of ghosts in the shadows. Their guns fired in short, deliberate bursts that quickly and precisely neutralised Armstrong's soldiers. The sound of metal
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