Novels2Search
Chum
Chapter 164.2

Chapter 164.2

The smoke's still thick, curling in dense sheets around us, but there's a pocket of clearer air here--just enough to see Soot standing there, the swirling fog leaking from their gloves like steam from a broken pipe. They're breathing heavy, gas mask hissing with each inhale, but their stance is steady. Like they've already made peace with what they're about to do.

I cough hard, my lungs burning worse with every breath. "What... what the hell are you doing?" I manage, stumbling closer. "You can't fill this place with chlorine. You'll kill everyone."

Soot doesn't even flinch. "I've got about eighty cubic feet stored up," they say, calm. Too calm. "Not enough to drown the whole warehouse, but enough to mix with the smoke. Make it impossible to avoid. They'll have to respect it."

Jordan's voice crackles over the comms, sharp and tense. "Wait--chlorine? Soot, are you out of your mind? This place is packed with chemicals." A pause, then, "I'm no chemist, but some of this stuff plus chlorine... that's an exothermic reaction waiting to happen. You'll cause a runaway. One barrel bursts, leaks into another, and boom--whole warehouse goes up."

I feel my stomach twist. The chemicals--the barrels we passed earlier--acetic anhydride, toluene, sodium hydroxide. I don't know the exact science, but I know enough to realize this place is basically a powder keg.

I turn back to Soot, heart racing. "You can't do this! You'll kill everyone in here--Argus, the guards, Bash, Lenny--"

"They brought this on themselves," Soot snaps, voice flat through the mask.

"Argus, maybe!" I shoot back. "But what about the guards? The security guy we tied up upstairs? Bash and Lenny? They're scumbags, yeah, but they don't deserve to die for this!"

Soot scoffs, folding their arms. "You're way too soft, Bloodhound. This place is a hub for bad guys. You got what you needed, didn't you? Jordan has the data. So get out. Let this place burn."

BANG! Not like a gunshot, more like a body being thrown against shelves.

"We're not executioners," I say, the words flying out before I can stop them. "This isn't how we do things."

"'We?'" Soot tilts their head. "You're not my team, Bloodhound."

That hits harder than I want it to, but I force it down. This isn't about me. It's about the dozen people in this warehouse--some bad, some worse, but none of them signed up to be poisoned and blown to bits.

Jordan's still on the comms. "Blood, we've got maybe two minutes before Turbo Jett punches through a wall or--" There's a loud BANG! in the distance, followed by the groaning creak of metal. "--or that. This place isn't going to hold."

I press a hand to my helmet, breathing hard. "We can't let this blow. Soot, come with us. We can still--"

"No," Soot cuts me off. "This is the only way to make sure this place doesn't keep running. I'm not risking the Kingdom covering their tracks. Let the explosion happen--it'll blow up millions of dollars' worth of chemicals and ruin their plans for months. It'll get people investigating Stheno Biopharma," they say, spitting the name, "and start drawing their own connections."

I glance around--the smoke, the towering shelves of chemicals, the spreading chaos--and my mind races. Would this actually fix things? I mean, this was the goal, right? Wreck the Kingdom's operation, grab the evidence, screw up their whole supply chain. If the place goes up in flames, that's millions in product gone, no chance for them to clean up the scene, and the smoke alone would draw half the city's emergency services here in minutes. No chance they bury this.

And the security footage--if it hasn't been wiped yet, the explosion would take care of that, too. No trace of us ever being here. Clean.

I swallow hard, the weight of it pressing in. "I get it," I say, voice low. "I really do. Burning this place to the ground... it would hit them where it hurts. But it's not about the chemicals or the evidence. It's about the people. Argus, Bash, Lenny, the guards--they're still in here."

Soot scoffs, waving a hand through the smoke. "Eighty cubic feet of chlorine isn't enough to fill even a fraction of this place, even if it was 100% pure. They'll be fine--if they're smart. But once it mixes with the smoke, it'll turn the whole warehouse into a no-go zone. They'll have to respect it. Get out or choke."

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I open my mouth to respond when--BANG! A deep metallic groan echoes through the warehouse, followed by the crack of collapsing shelves somewhere deeper inside. The whole floor shudders under my feet, and the smoke swirls in sudden, jagged eddies. I spot Miasma in between a crack in the shelves, just for a moment, grabbing Captain Devil's wrist and tugging it smoke-ward before a giant pane of Lenny's forcefields smacks into both of them, clipping them. I watch Bash's silhouette fight for its life dozens of feet away through my blood sense.

And then my stomach drops.

The security guard upstairs. The one we zip tied. I feel the panic rush in, cold and sharp.

"Shit," I breathe, panic flooding in, sharp and cold. "The guard. He's still tied up!"

Jordan and Maggie both look at me like someone just shot a dog in front of them. Soot turns away from the three of us - if there's an expression behind their gas mask, I can't read it, but their body stiffens up like a board. My fingers ache and the bridge of my nose feels like it's been broken again. It's too much thinking.

They're waiting for me to make a call. All three of them.

That, of course, is when Patriot slides through the smoke like a phantom, nostrils closed - was he just holding his breath through it? He opens his face up, exhales, and inhales. "Smells like victory."

"Go!" I yell, turning on my heel and beginning my run towards the stairs.

I break into a dead sprint toward the back of the warehouse, lungs burning like someone's taken sandpaper to them. The smoke thins a little as I move--less dense here--but it doesn't help. My throat's raw, each breath scraping deeper, every chemical Soot's dumped into the air chewing at the inside of my lungs. Pepper spray, fireworks smoke, onion fumes--whatever's next--it's all mixing in my head, making my vision swim.

The metal stairs loom ahead, stretching up to the security office where the guard's still tied up. I push harder, ignoring the dizziness clawing at the edges of my vision.

Then I hear it--boots hitting the ground. Heavy. Steady. Close. I don't look back, but I know who it is. I hear him behind me, footsteps precise, measured--like this is just another drill to him. He's not even rushing. Just... closing in.

There's a beat--a sharp exhale through the comms--and then Jordan's voice, tense but focused. "Flash, take the keycard--open the side door, now! Soot, start venting--"

I can hear them setting up the escape plan, moving into position, but the pounding in my ears makes it hard to focus. Jordan keeps talking, their voice cutting in and out as I sprint. "I'm gonna slice the warehouse across this line so you can disperse it directly into the cen--"

But then I hit the stairs--metal on metal, my boots clanging with every frantic step--and their voice gets drowned out in the noise. I risk a glance over my shoulder, and Patriot is gaining, rapidly. He's not even struggling--just powering forward in that picture-perfect army sprint, arms pumping, legs moving like pistons. I've hit my growth spurt, sure, but he's got the kind of stride that swallows distance in seconds. I push harder, lungs screaming, but he's still gaining.

"Blood, you better know what you're doing! We're getting out of here!" Jordan's voice crackles in my ear, but I don't have the air to respond. The stairs creak under my weight as I throw myself up them, two steps at a time, heart hammering like it's going to punch through my ribs.

I'm almost at the top--just a few more steps.

I feel his hand close around my ankle, hard--steel-trap fingers locking tight around the joint--and then he yanks and squeezes, and something very quickly goes pop that shouldn't be. Pain shoots up my leg as I lose my footing, my body pitching forward. I slam down on the top stair, elbows scraping against the metal, air punched out of my lungs. Patriot's grip tightens, and I feel it--the pressure around my ankle like he's about to crush the bones into paste.

I should be panicking. I should be terrified. All rational parts of me should be firing at 100% fear. The only fear I feel? It's not for me--it's for the security guard. The one still tied up upstairs. The one who doesn't get to fight back. The thing I'm feeling, funny enough, is a weird sense of giddiness, like I just got tickled. The corners of my mouth curl up and I don't even have any conscious control over it.

I twist my torso hard, sucking in a shallow breath through gritted teeth, and plant my free foot against the metal stair. Then, with every ounce of strength I can muster, I snap my leg backward in a brutal donkey kick.

CRACK.

My heel slams straight into Patriot's face. I hear the crunch--bone, cartilage, something giving way--but his grip doesn't loosen. Not yet.

"C'mon!" I snarl, pushing through the searing pain in my ankle.

I swing my leg up and over, an axe kick aimed squarely at the top of his head. It connects with a solid thud, snapping his head forward--and that's when his fingers slip, just for a second.

It's enough.

I twist my other leg hard--too hard--and feel the sickening slide as my ankle fully dislocates, tendons stretching past where they're supposed to. Pain tears through me, but I grit my teeth and pull free, scrambling forward onto the landing.

The second my foot clears his grip, there's a sharp, deafening SNAP.

The entire warehouse shifts beneath me--space folding in on itself as Jordan compresses a massive chunk of the structure. The staircase splits--literally--right beneath me. The metal cleaves clean apart, a sharp, wide discontinuity running through the diagonal stairs like someone sliced the world with a giant knife.

I stumble, grabbing onto the railing, just as Patriot lunges upward again--momentum carrying him forward--but there's nothing in front of him anymore. The stairs have been severed. He pitches forward, arms outstretched, trying to grab me again--but his reach comes up short. His body slides under me, past the broken edge, and then he falls almost unceremoniously, down the 20 feet, maybe more.

I don't wait to see where he lands.

I shove myself to my feet--my dislocated ankle screaming in protest--and limp toward the security office, heart hammering, lungs burning, grin still on my face.

I love being a superhero.