The heavy oak door to Clara’s bedroom had been splintered off its hinges, the wood fractured like shattered bone. Julian Thorne stepped over the wreckage, his custom suit speckled with the blood of the men he had just slaughtered in the east corridor. The klaxons of the estate’s alarm system screame

Clara’s head swam in a nauseating sea of pain, the sharp, metallic taste of blood heavy on her tongue. She blinked, her vision slowly swimming into focus as the blinding glare of an overhead halogen lamp assaulted her eyes.

The air was freezing, thick with the smell of brine, rusted metal, and old

The scream ripped through the suffocating blackness of the warehouse, cutting off abruptly with a wet, sickening crunch.

Panic erupted instantly. The remaining mercenaries opened fire, their assault rifles transforming the pitch-black space into a chaotic, strobe-lit nightmare. Muzzle flashes pain