CHAPTER 288: CHAPTER - 288

Chapter - 288

Rick’s hand was on the heavy steel handle of the safe. The air in the container was so thick with tension it was almost unbreathable. In the corner, a bloody and whimpering Crimson Sparrow was a pathetic heap of misery. Beside him, Sharon stood with her hand resting on her holstered pistol, her entire body coiled like a spring.

With a grunt of effort, Rick pulled the heavy, insulated door open. It moved with a silent, hydraulic hiss, revealing the contents within.

His flashlight beam cut into the small, dark space and landed on a treasure trove. This wasn’t just a laptop. This was a dragon’s hoard. The interior was lined with plush, fireproof velvet. On the bottom shelf sat neat, vacuum-sealed bricks of cash—USD, Euros, stacks of Yen. Next to them were several black velvet bags. Rick grabbed one, loosened the drawstring, and a river of loose, cut diamonds, emeralds, and rubies spilled into his palm, scattering the light from his phone into a thousand tiny, greedy stars. A few small, 10-ounce gold bars were stacked neatly in the back.

And sitting in the dead center, on its own velvet pedestal, was a sleek, black, ultra-thin laptop.

Rick let out a low whistle of genuine admiration. "She wasn’t just a con artist. She was planning to buy her own damn country." His eyes were glued to the cash and gems, his mind momentarily sidetracked by the sheer scale of the wealth.

"That’s it." Sharon’s voice was sharp, her flashlight beam fixed exclusively on the laptop. "That’s the asset. Leave the rest, Rick. We are not here for that."

Rick’s hand, the one with the stolen Rolex, hovered over a bag of diamonds. The temptation was a physical thing. "It’s a shame to leave it..." he muttered.

"Rick! We’re on a clock!" she snapped.

He growled, a low sound of frustration in his throat. He shoved a few of the vacuum-sealed bricks of cash into the deep pockets of his jacket and grabbed the laptop. It was impossibly light, cool to the touch. He flipped it open. The screen was dead.

"Battery’s drained," he said. "Or it’s fried."

"It doesn’t matter," Sharon said, already moving toward the container’s exit, her gun now in her hand. "We don’t need to open it. We just need to trade it. Let’s go."

Rick, holding the laptop, and Sharon, her pistol now raised in a low-ready, moved toward the open door, a dark rectangle of relative safety in the pitch-black shipyard. From the corner, Sparrow let out a low, pathetic moan.

"Wait..." he gurgled. "Don’t... don’t leave me..."

"Shut up," Rick snarled over his shoulder.

They reached the edge of the container, about to step out into the gravel...

And then the darkness in the doorway materialized.

Two figures, framed perfectly in the opening, stepped into the container. They were the men from the sedan, Sparrow One and Sparrow Two. They moved with a calm, fluid, professional grace. Both held silenced pistols, and both were aimed with terrifying steadiness, one at Rick’s head, one at Sharon’s.

"Good evening," Sparrow One said, his voice calm, almost polite. It was the same voice Rick had heard on the phone. "Thank you for doing the hard part. We’ll take the laptop now."

Sharon’s training kicked in. She instinctively stepped half in front of Rick, her own weapon coming up. "Stop! I am Lieutenant Sharon Vintner, Portstown PD! Drop your weapons! You’re surrounded!"

Sparrow One and Sparrow Two looked at each other. A beat of silence. And then they both chuckled. It wasn’t a loud laugh, but a quiet, controlled, utterly condescending sound.

"Portstown PD?" Sparrow Two said, a smirk on his face. "Oh, that’s just adorable. Did you hear that, One? She thinks she’s in charge. She thinks she’s in a movie."

Sparrow One’s gaze never left Rick. He completely ignored Sharon, as if she were a piece of furniture. "The laptop," he said, his voice flat. "Hand it over. Don’t be a hero. You’ve already proven you’re smart by getting this far. Don’t be stupid now."

Sharon’s face was flushed with righteous fury. "We’re not giving you anything! You’re accessories to a kidnapping! You have no idea the trouble you’re in. This is your last chance to drop your weapons!"

"Sharon," Rick said quietly, his voice dangerously low. "Shut up. They’re not cops. You’re just making them angry."

"The lieutenant is right about one thing," Sparrow One said, his pistol not wavering a single millimeter. "We are in a hurry. So, here’s the final offer. The laptop... for your lives." He gestured with the silencer. "A fair trade, wouldn’t you say? You get to live. We get to leave."

Rick looked at the two men. He saw their stance, their trigger discipline, the cold, dead look in their eyes. They were not bluffing. His System Quest was to save Nadia, not to die in a metal box over a piece of hardware. He made the calculation.

Slowly, deliberately, he held out the black laptop. "Fine. You win."

Sparrow Two’s smirk widened. He walked forward, snatched the laptop from Rick’s hand, his own pistol never leaving Sharon’s chest. He tucked the laptop under his arm and gave a curt nod to Sparrow One. "We have the asset."

"Excellent," Sparrow One said. "Well, thank you for your time. Oh, one last piece of housekeeping..."

He turned, his movement fluid. His pistol didn’t aim at Rick or Sharon. It aimed at the back of the container.

Crimson Sparrow had just managed to pull himself up to his knees. His face was a bloody, swollen mask of terror. He saw the gun turn to him. His eyes went wide.

"Wait... no... please..." he gurgled.

PFFT.

The sound was a wet, quiet cough. A small, dark hole appeared in the center of Crimson Sparrow’s forehead. His eyes went wide with a final, surprised look, and he collapsed forward without a sound, his blood beginning to pool on the steel floor.

"NO!" Sharon screamed, a sound of pure, primal rage. She raised her pistol to fire.

"STAY DOWN!" Rick roared. He wasn’t trying to save her; he was trying to save himself. He slammed into her, tackling her to the floor as two more silenced shots, PFFT-PFFT, zipped through the air where she had been standing, smacking into the metal wall with a hard PING.

"You bastard!" she shrieked from the floor.

Sparrow One and Sparrow Two were already backing out of the container, their guns still trained on the two of them.

"A final piece of advice, Lieutenant," Sparrow One said, his voice laced with mocking contempt. "This is not your jurisdiction."

They were out. They grabbed the heavy, groaning steel door of the container. With a combined grunt, they slammed it shut, plunging Rick and Sharon into absolute, suffocating darkness.

CLANK.

The sound was heavy, final. The sound of the high-security disc lock being snapped shut from the outside.

A cold dread, worse than anything he’d felt so far, washed over Rick. He scrambled to his feet in the dark, fumbling for his phone.

He heard muffled voices from outside.

"They took the key from the lock, didn’t they?" It was Sparrow Two.

"Of course they did," Sparrow One replied. "Which means..."

THUD!

A heavy, metallic impact rattled the entire container.

THUD! THUD!

"What are they doing?" Sharon’s voice was a panicked whisper from the floor.

"They’re using the lock," Rick said, his blood running cold as he fumbled with his phone. "They’re hammering the door handle. They’re jamming it."

Then came a new sound. A liquid hssssss... splash.

"What’s that smell?" Sharon asked.

Rick finally got his flashlight on. He aimed it at the bottom of the door, where a dark, iridescent liquid was beginning to seep in. "Gasoline," he said, his voice flat.

From outside, Sparrow One’s muffled voice called out, a final, mocking farewell. "Enjoy the retirement fund!"

WHOOSH!

A bright orange light suddenly bloomed, visible through the small gap at the bottom of the door. They hadn’t set the inside of the container on fire. They had set a massive fire outside the only exit, superheating the steel, trapping them inside a rapidly heating oven.

"Oh my God," Sharon whispered. She scrambled in the dark, her own flashlight clicking on. The beam landed on Crimson Sparrow’s body. "He’s... he’s gurgling! He’s still breathing! Rick, help me! I have to apply pressure! He’s bleeding out!"

But Rick was already at the other end of the 40-foot container, ignoring her. He was kicking at the solid steel walls, slamming his fists against them. "They locked us in!" he roared, his voice a mix of fury and dawning panic. "They took the key! They’re trapping us!"

He was frantic. He grabbed a box of brand-new TVs and threw it, the box exploding against the wall. He grabbed the rack of designer suits and tore it from its mountings. He was a caged animal, throwing Nadia’s entire stolen treasure trove around the container, his flashlight beam cutting madly through the dust. He was looking for... something. Anything. Another door. A vent. A weak point.

The container was right now in chaos.

Sharon, her hands covered in warm, sticky blood, desperately trying to save a man from losing all his blood.

Rick, at the far end, a wild man, tearing apart a fortune in stolen goods, his new Rolex gleaming in the dark as he searched for an escape.

And Crimson Sparrow, lying in a pool of his own blood, his eyes sightless, a faint, gurgling, off-key hum bubbling from his throat. His last, pathetic song.