Before Alexander could even reply, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, looking down at a flash-red emergency notification taking over the entire encrypted screen.

EMERGENCY MISSION: ALL REVENUE AGENTS REPORT IMMEDIATELY. REINFORCEMENTS REQUESTED AT SECTOR 4 LOGISTICS HUB. LIVE BOUNTY: $1,000,000.

Alexander tapped the screen to dismiss it, but the interface locked up, showing only a massive, glowing prompt: ACCEPT. There was no back button, no exit strategy, and no option to decline. TMC was pulling every available leash.

"I have an emergency," said Alexander, turning his sharp gaze back to Jessica as he pocketed the phone. "I need to leave right now. I’ll be back as soon as I can."

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and sprinted down the hospital corridor, hitting the stairs three at a time. As he burst out into the cool air of the parking lot, he pulled his phone out and speed-dialed Marcus.

"Did you see the ping?" asked Alexander the second the line connected.

"Yeah, I saw it, and I’m not touching that shitshow," said Marcus, his voice sounding tense through the speaker. "Word on the wire is that Big Black has officially surfaced. He’s tearing through one of TMC’s primary storage facilities right now."

"Shit," muttered Alexander, unlocking the Tahoe. "My interface locked up. It didn’t give me any option other than to accept."

"Damn it... I managed to hit decline before the script overrode my terminal," said Marcus, letting out a low curse. "If I even get close to that zone now, the automated perimeter defense will tag me as a hostile target. You need to watch your back, Alex. Big Black isn’t some low-level street thug you can just put down with a lucky shot. The guy is a force of nature."

"I’ll handle it," said Alexander, slamming the phone down on the console.

He marched to the back of the Tahoe, popping the heavy rear trunk. Moving with precision, he hauled out a heavy tactical vest, strapping it tightly across his chest before grabbing two high-caliber assault rifles and a heavy rocket launcher. He tossed the weaponry onto the front passenger seat so they were within arm’s reach while driving.

A few meters away, a city police cruiser was parked near the entrance. Two uniformed officers stood by the hood, watching Alexander openly loading a war arsenal into his cabin. One of the younger cops instinctively let his hand drop to the holster of his service pistol.

"Don’t even think about it," said the older partner, reaching out and physically grabbing the young cop’s wrist to hold him back.

The police dispatch radio was blaring inside their cruiser, a frantic operator issuing a direct, high-level mandate: All municipal units are ordered to vacate Sector 4. Do not engage, do not intercept, and do not interfere with any ongoing operational activity.

Alexander didn’t give them a second glance. He slammed the driver’s door shut, threw the Tahoe into drive, and slammed his foot on the accelerator, the heavy SUV rocketing out of the hospital lot with its engine roaring at maximum RPM.

As he tore into the designated Sector 4 perimeter, the sky darkened, illuminated only by the bright, chaotic muzzle flashes echoing from every alleyway. The battlefield was a mess of contrasting styles. On one side, the TMC field agents were easily recognizable—operating with their distinct, high-end aesthetic, looking like groomed, elite escorts carrying customized submachine guns. On the other side, the attackers were driving heavily modified, rugged underground-style trucks and tuners, moving with a reckless, brutal aggression.

Up ahead, a group of TMC agents fired a concentrated volley into a speeding black Suburban, the heavy rounds piercing the engine block and causing the massive vehicle to flip over, scraping across the asphalt in a shower of sparks. Alexander yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, barely dodging the rolling wreckage, but before he could straighten out, a second modified truck charged out from a side street, ramming his Tahoe’s rear quarter panel with the force of a freight train.

The brutal impact sent the Tahoe spinning out of control. The heavy SUV whipped around before slamming sideways into the concrete wall of a commercial building at sixty miles an hour.

CRASH!

The side airbags deployed with a loud detonation, filling the smoke-choked cabin with white dust. Alexander’s head snapped sideways, his vision going blurry as a sharp, disorienting ringing took over his ears. Fighting through the severe concussion, his survival instinct kicked in. He kicked the jammed driver’s door open with both feet, tumbling out onto the rough asphalt while gripping one of the assault rifles he had grabbed from the seat by pure muscle memory.

Through the haze, his eyes locked onto a nearby pickup truck that was pivoting, accelerating toward his position to crush him against the wall.

Alexander threw his body to the right, rolling across the pavement just as the truck’s front bumper smashed into the ruined frame of his Tahoe. While the vehicle was still sliding to a halt, the doors flew open and two heavily armed operatives leaped out opening fire with tight, professional groupings.

The adrenaline surged through Alexander’s veins like liquid fire, but it wasn’t fast enough. Three high-velocity rounds slammed into his tactical chest plate, the kinetic energy feeling like three blows from a sledgehammer that drove the air out of his lungs. A fourth round grazed the side of his head, tearing a clean, bloody hole straight through his earlobe.

"Ah!" grunted Alexander, his body hitting the asphalt hard as a searing, blinding pain radiated from his head and chest.

There was no time to breathe, let alone recover. The two attackers moved with precision, splitting up instantly to flank him from both sides like a pair of highly trained wolves closing in on a target.

Damn it, thought Alexander, his teeth clenched as he raised his rifle into the smoke. These guys aren’t street thugs. They’re on an different level.