Dante’s grip tightened.Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
Somewhere behind them: a shout. Ford’s voice. Maybe Shannon’s. Maybe the world finally catching up.
Krueger reached again. And Dante made the choice. He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.He bit down. Hard. Into the crook of Krueger’s wrist. Blood filled his mouth—hot and iron-rich—and the general screamed, yanking his hand back in shock.
And Dante slammed his elbow into the switch panel, just enough to push the old man off-balance.
They crashed to the floor again. Everything hurt. He rolled. His vision went white at the edges, but he saw Krueger’s face—eyes wide, lip bloody, stunned. And Dante was still alive.
Krueger came at him again. A surge of fury—years of rot, resentment, ideology, weaponized into brute strength. Dante rolled too late to fully avoid it and caught the impact across his ribs, white-hot pain blooming like fire under his skin.
“Dante, hang on. I’m trying to get to you,” Ford yelled as he worked to get the door open wide enough to make it through.
Krueger’s hand was still bleeding from where Dante bit him, but he didn’t seem to feel it. His other hand clutched Dante’s shirt, trying to slam his head into the cement decking.Dante turned into it,letting the momentum glance off the back of his skull. His fingers scrambled for the general’s wounded wrist—found it—and twisted.
Krueger grunted in pain but didn’t let go. “You think this ends with you?” he spat.
Dante said nothing, just drove his knee upward into Krueger’s kidney. The older man buckled for half a breath.
Dante shoved hard—using every ounce of leverage—rolled, reversed, and slammed Krueger onto his back with a thud that shook through both of them. He was on top now. He pinned the general’s shoulders, ignoring the tremor in his arms, ignoring the searing in his chest.
Krueger growled, struggling to breathe. His hand twitched toward his jacket—something hidden.
Dante didn’t give him the chance.One punch. Then another. Blood sprayed. A tooth rattled loose.
A third punch. Harder.
Krueger sagged. Still breathing. Dazed. His lips moved. Something soft. Mumbled.
Dante leaned in. “What?”
Krueger’s voice was ragged now, almost a whisper. “Daniel was always smarter than you.”
Dante’s eyes went flat. He gripped the collar of Krueger’s shirt, pulling him up just enough to see his face. “Daniel’s dead. And this is done.”
He slammed Krueger’s head into the floor.
The general went limp. Not dead. But unconscious. And just like that—it was over.
Ford’s voice broke through behind him, “Dante!”
Dante dropped onto his side, breathing in gasps, arms trembling from the aftermath.
Shannon wasthe first through the breach at the other end. The hallway stank of blood, ozone, and concrete dust. Her boots skidded briefly on water pooling near the device’s base—the bomb, inert now, panel smashed and power visibly disconnected.
Then she saw them. Ford was supporting Dante’s head. He was slumped to his side, eyes glassy, chest heaving. “Shannon, get an ambulance.”
And beside him, Krueger, lay unconscious and unmoving, face bloodied.
“Dante!” She dropped to her knees, hands already on his face, her voice high with panic. “Hey—hey. Stay with me, look at me.”
He blinked up at her. Barely there. His lips parted. “You… said you’d be right back.”
She bit back a sob and leaned down, forehead to his. “I am. I’m right here. Don’t move. Help is coming.”
CHASE NYC COMMAND OPS ROOM
Ian Chase stood frozen as the final report came through: “Device secured. Krueger apprehended. Olivetti alive—injured. Johnson and Cox with him.”
