CHAPTER 132: Insurrection

CHAPTER 132: Insurrection

The pharmacy seemed innocuous: neat display windows, shelves with neatly aligned boxes, an old sign hanging with a flickering light bulb. From the sidewalk, nothing gave it away as anything other than a neighborhood shop. But in the back room, behind a metal door with a code, the real business throbbed: vials, substances packed in cold storage, and a labyrinth of boxes with labels that the least curious inspector would accept without batting an eye.

Enid Corp. had accepted the assignment with all the professional coolness the case required. The federal government, with officials who needed names and not questions, had asked them to "bring order" to the network. To avoid political scandal, the operation had to be discreet: clean up, control, and recover evidence without any leaks. Enid had sent their team most inclined towards direct conflict.

Ten meters from the pharmacy, a black van waited in the shadows. Fénix, Lucian, and Vanessa checked their equipment and breathed calmly. None of them made a sound. The plan Enid had given them was precisely that: simple, direct, and minimal in variables.

"Run through it one more time," whispered Vanessa, her short flashlight pointed at her jacket pocket. "I don't want surprises."

Fénix rested his palm on the hood, his gaze on the display window. His voice was neutral, controlled.

"Entry through the rear. Fast push, neutralize two bodyguards, and secure the lab room. Lucian stays with the evidence, and I go for the brain of the group. Vanessa covers the retreat. A single contact, two minutes inside," he said. "No spectacle, no long chases."

Lucian smiled wryly, but his hands didn't tremble as he loaded his gear.

"Two minutes is optimistic, but I'll take the bet. If the plan fails, we improvise in silence and leave," he replied.

Vanessa zipped up her bulletproof vest like someone tuning an instrument.

"Remember: the government asked for evidence, not corpses. If anyone opens fire and it's not strictly justified, hold back. We want the names, not headlines."

The van stopped, and the team moved with their usual precision: measured steps, eyes scanning every window and every shadow. Vanessa moved ahead to the back door, patted the metal like someone grasping a secret, and with a silent gesture authorized the entry. Fénix, Lucian, and she entered in formation.

The back room smelled of solvent and hot plastic. The fluorescent lights flickered. Nothing foreshadowed the coming uproar: a tense silence, like the string of a bow before release.

From the back of the room came a short, scornful laugh. The network's leader, standing on an improvised platform, allowed himself a slow, almost theatrical applause.

"I thought you'd come with more discretion," he said in the voice of a man used to bending wills. "But fine. Come on. It'll probably be fun."

Before anyone could react, his men activated their rifles. Bursts of gunfire shattered the air. The door they had entered through slammed shut: they had been expected.

"Take cover!" Vanessa shouted instinctively, throwing herself behind the counter.

The roar was a whip crack. Lucian rolled behind some boxes; Fénix took cover behind the counter, but a bullet came straight and hit him in the left forearm. The burning was instantaneous, a metallic ringing that shot down to his hand. He looked at the dark blood welling up; behind the pain, a cold rage ignited in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" Vanessa asked between shots, gauging angles to return fire without exposing herself.

"Yes," Fénix replied in a contained voice. "Just a scratch."

Lucian returned fire with surgical precision. The scene became a tableau of gunpowder: smoke, boxes flying into splinters, containers rolling. Vanessa neutralized two attackers with shots that disarmed but didn't kill; they aimed to incapacitate and maintain control. Still, they managed to take down several syndicate members: bodies falling between shelves, echoes of impacts, the smell of cordite.

The leader, from his elevated position, snorted with smugness seeing some of his men fall.

"Fall back!" he ordered, and his voice carried the urgency of someone who knows the night is turning against him.

Those remaining began retreating towards the back exit, and within seconds, a corridor of shadows opened towards the street. They moved fast, with the discipline of those who have practiced escapes.

Fénix barely had time to get up. The blood on his arm throbbed with every movement; the bullet, cold and rounded, drove a reminder into him. Without thinking of the pain, he moved away from cover and, with the same injured hand, reached for the small medical bag he always carried. He took out a pair of tweezers, took a deep breath, and with an essential and brutal motion, pulled the silver bullet lodged in his arm. A wet, brief sound. He didn't stop to look; he pressed the wound firmly, bit his lip, and let out a grunt that nobody interpreted as anything other than determination.

Down the back street, shadows moved in retreat. Two men ran with sacks; another tried to start the engine of a loaded car. Fénix, with a bandaged arm, was one more shadow among shadows, but his speed was different: fueled by rage and something older in his blood. He reached the first with a dry blow that knocked the wind out of him; then, without pause, focused on the two trying to get into the car. One raised a gun; Fénix let himself be carried by the momentum of the fight and, with a precise impact, disarmed and took him down. It wasn't a cold execution: it was the absolute restraint of someone who wouldn't let his mark escape.

The last two men tried to split up. Fénix chose the best angle: a jump, an elbow that broke the defense, and two takedowns that sealed the scene. When he stopped, the asphalt smelled of oil and blood, and the moon watched as an indifferent witness.