Chapter 17 - The Melody of Blood
The freezing Arctic air screamed at minus-forty degrees as Julian fell through the void of the midnight blizzard. The clouds were a chaotic tempest of blinding ice crystals, tearing at his flight suit like razor blades. Below him, the black expanse of the Barents Sea was invisible, swallowed entirely by the terrifying void of the polar night.
Julian monitored the digital altimeter flashing inside the heads-up display of his tactical visor: *10,000 feet... 5,000 feet... 2,000 feet.*
With a sudden, violent yank, Julian deployed his steerable black canopy. The deceleration slammed into his harness with brutal force, but he ignored the pain, adjusting his control toggles to align with the faint infrared beacon blinking on the superstructure of the *Vanguard-Nine*.
Through the swirling snow, the massive silhouette of the icebreaker materialized below him.
Julian cut his risers ten feet above the slick, snow-dusted helipad, dropping onto the deck in a perfect three-point landing. He rolled, drew his suppressed pistol in a single continuous motion, and fired two rounds into the chest of an oblivious sentry patrolling near the flight control tower. The guard collapsed into the snow without uttering a sound.
A second later, Marcus and two other operators touched down silently behind him, detaching their parachutes and sweeping the perimeter with submachine guns.
"Guard towers cleared," Marcus whispered over the localized bone-conduction comms. "Bridge access is down the port companionway."
"Leave no one standing," Julian ordered coldly. "They signed their death warrants the day they accepted my brother’s money."
Julian led the breach. Moving through the narrow, steel-walled corridors of the lower decks, Julian was an elemental force of destruction. When two armed mercenaries emerged from a mess hall, Julian didn't seek cover—he stepped forward, firing double-taps into their visors before they could shoulder their rifles.
The sound-suppressed pops of gunfire were masked by the deafening roar of the icebreaker’s massive diesel engines grinding through the polar ice sheets.
They moved deeper into the heart of the ship, leaving a trail of bodies in every stairwell and bulkhead. These were elite killers, men who had fought in shadow wars across three continents, but they were completely unprepared for the sheer, terrifying ferocity of a father fighting to purge the earth of the demon hunting his child.
Julian kicked open the heavy watertight door leading into the master state room.
The room was vast, lined with polished mahogany and leather, boasting panoramic armored windows looking out onto the frozen sea. Classical music—Chopin’s Nocturnes—drifted softly from a vintage gramophone in the corner.
Sitting at the center of the room, calmly pouring a glass of twenty-five-year-old scotch, was Gabriel Vance.
Gabriel didn't reach for a weapon. He looked up, his scarred face illuminated by the amber glow of the desk lamp, a smug, arrogant grin curling his lips as he stared down the barrel of Julian’s smoking rifle.
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"Right on time, Julian," Gabriel said smoothly, taking a sip from his crystal glass. "You always were predictable when someone touched your precious toys."
***
