Novel & Cerita Rdr2 Arthur Grave

I swung the strap of the rifle across my chest so the rifle was hanging down my back with the barrel downwards. I got up and ran to where the ladder was located. I kept count in my head and I was twenty seconds in. I descended the ladder quickly and ran across 54th Avenue and stood with my back against the warehouse building. I took one of the Jericho’s from the shoulder holster and felt human again.

The guards who had been raising their rifles toward the lower platform dropped to the floor immediately, crawling behind a row of steel barrels to return fire. Through the flashes of the gunfire, my eyes swept the lower platform until I finally saw them near the stationary crane. Arthur was on his hands and knees, his bare feet bleeding against the grates as he desperately tried to pull his little brother behind a thick metal wheel. A shooter on the upper catwalk leaned right over the rail, leveling his sights straight at Arthur's exposed head.

The sound of the crane arm snapping was a jagged, metallic shriek that seemed to tear through the very fabric of the subterranean vault, echoing off the cold concrete walls like a death knell. Verina’s scream was lost in the roar of the machinery as she lunged toward the monitor, her fingers clawing at the glass screen as if she could reach through the pixels and pull her father back from the dark, churning maw of the Atlantic. Arthur Vance had vanished beneath the white foam of the wake, the heavy weights at his feet acting as a cruel anchor that dragged him into the crushing, silent depths of the harbor.

Until now. Shifting into drive, I hit the gas a little harder than intended. Gravel tumbles underneath the tires, keeping me from moving for a second before the Volvo takes off. I manage to turn around, easing up on the gas and finally hitting pavement to pass the cemetery gates. It's still pitch black outside but I'm beyond positive it shouldn't be. I've been gone for hours. This is insane. Nothing makes sense. The Watchman. My dead brother-at least I think it's him-back from the dead.

“Your brother thinks he’s so stealthy, but he forgets that those in my generation have been there and done that. Plus, there’s no real explanation for the two of them having each other’s scent on them all the time unless they were spending an inordinate amount of time together. I would hope that your brother isn't stupid enough to think that he could sleep with my daughter if she isn’t his mate, especially for as long as this has gone on.” “My brother isn’t stupid,” I say, smiling at her. “I don’t think so either,” she says as the waitress comes over filling our coffee mugs. “So, tell me about your trip to Araphyra. I understand there was a rogue that you think is working with the vampires?”

She tapped a few buttons, and from where she was, she could clearly see the live feed from one of the drone cameras she’d authorized. The "Sacred Grove." To the wolves, it was where their ancestors’ spirits supposedly hummed in the roots of the ancient cedars. To her, it was six hundred acres of prime timber and untapped geothermal energy that Roman had been too "traditional" to monetize. From her screen, she saw everything perfectly well. Six massive, yellow D11 bulldozers had their engines kicking up plumes of black soot that stained the morning air. They were lined up at the edge of the forest like a row of teeth ready to devour.

Until it was nothing but broken rubble. I stopped. Smiled. Straightened up, pulled a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. My hands still shook a little. Just from the swing. I gave the rubble one last look. Then turned and walked back. The SUV was fixed. New off-road tires. Body clean. Matte black paint. Under the sun, it gleamed—like a beast reborn. Brand new. I pulled the door open and slid in. Leather tight under me. Engine on. The nav spoke:

Chloe supported Elena weight, offering quiet words of encouragement whenever her sister stumbled in the dark. Finally, the stagnant, moldy air of the tunnel began to shift. Chloe felt a faint, incredibly cold breeze brush against her face. It smelled sharply of salt, diesel fuel, and rotting seaweed. "We are close," Arthur announced from the front of the line, pausing to catch his breath. He pointed his wooden cane toward a massive, heavily rusted iron bulkhead door set directly into the concrete wall ahead. "That blast door leads to the drainage culverts beneath Pier Forty Two. My contact is waiting on the other side."