Inside, the air smelled of ozone and copper. The main atrium was a cathedral of glass and steel, now strung with motion sensors and IR lasers. Maverick moved like smoke. He disabled two guards with silent, brutal efficiency—one dart to the neck, one disarmed and knocked unconscious with the edge of his hand. He took their comms, patched into their frequency, and heard Fenris’s voice for the first time in eight years.
In the chaos, Maverick moved. He wasn't faster than a bullet. He was faster than a decision. He took down three mercenaries in four seconds—dart, elbow, disarm, shot to the knee. He grabbed a child’s hand, shoved her toward the exit stairwell, and shouted, “Run! North corridor!”
The Geneva police stormed the gallery two minutes later. Hostages were freed. The Alpha Strain was secured. Fenris was led away in a neural restraint collar, still staring at his broken arm.
Fenris roared and raised his dead-man’s switch. “The cure dies with me!”
“Brother!” Fenris’s voice boomed as his eyes locked onto Maverick. “I knew you’d come. Take off that coat. Let them see the wolf.”
He smiled—a rare, tired thing. “Tell them to call me for breakfast next time. I’m getting too old for 3 AM.”
Maverick shuffled forward, eyes scanning. He spotted the master power relay for the cryo-vault—a red switch behind Fenris, ten meters away. He also spotted the one flaw in Fenris’s theater: his mechanical arm’s servo twitched every four seconds. A timing tell.
“One hundred and twelve civilians. Eight security personnel, KIA. Their leader is a ghost from your past. Code name: Fenris.”