# Chapter 22 – The Chase Begins
Scott squeezed the trigger with a triumphant smile.
**Pffft!**
The smile evaporated instantly.
The moment the bullet cleared the muzzle, Big Dogg snatched his tailored suit jacket upward, sweeping the fabric over his head like a shield.
CLACK!
The high-caliber round struck the tailored cloth—and flattened instantly upon impact. The kinetic force pushed Big Dogg back a single step, the ruined lead slug dropping uselessly onto the concrete floor.
Scott's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. He racked the slide and fired six more rounds in rapid succession. Pffft-pffft-pffft! Big Dogg retreated smoothly behind his silk-lined shield, hiding behind the suit jacket. Every round struck the fabric, yet none pierced it. the suppressed rounds bouncing off the fabric like raindrops off reinforced steel.
Before Scott could squeeze off a eighth round, a high-velocity tracer round cut through the smoke from his right side, it sliced between his thumb and index finger before smashing into his pistol
THWACK
The impact tore the pistol clean out of Scott's grp sending the weapon spinning across the warehouse floor. A sharp, searing pain shot up his wrist. Scott looked down at his left hand, gasping—a deep, jagged gash split the flesh between his thumb and index finger where the bullet had grazed him before shattering his sidearm.
Scott threw himself backward, Only then did he take in the battlefield.
Big Dogg's operatives had already pulled back, using the open heavy doors of their armored SUVs as a mobile firing line. Heavy automatic fire rained down across the concrete floor. Scott's surviving men were pinned down behind their luxury sedan. The driver was hunkered behind the front door panel, returning short, controlled bursts, while the second operative was dragging himself backward toward the rear passenger side, using his own reinforced suit jacket to shield his head from incoming shrapnel.
Scott's mind raced into overdrive. He wasn't surprised his men's suits resisted light fire—their tactical apparel was custom-crafted using Vane Industries' top-tier ballistic weave to absorbed the occasional hit, preventing fatal wounds.
What left him utterly confounded was Big Dogg's jacket. Vane Industries never sold that proprietary weave to outside syndicates—it was strictly produced for internal black-ops units.
Scott stared through the gunsmoke at Big Dogg, gasping out a single word: "How?"
Positioned in front of his convertible, Big Dogg lowered his suit jacket and casually brushed the dust off his shoulders, restoring his tailored silhouette.
Scott's expression darkened.
"You shouldn't have that."
"Oh, but I do."
Big Dogg spread his arms proudly.
He smiled smoothly, stepping into the clear space between the cars. " I bet your corporate brain is spinning, suspecting internal moles and corporate espionage. But let me save you the trouble of an internal investigation."
Despite the deafening roar of automatic gunfire echoing across the warehouse, Scott and Big Dogg stood forty feet apart, completely unfazed—two commanders operating in a quiet eye at the center of a storm. As if under unwritten orders, neither side's marksmen dared fire into the space between them.
"When your company shut down Stark Tech to carve up the market for yourselves," Big Dogg continued, his voice easily carrying over the gunfire, "we onlookers had our own selfish goals. Mine was simple: get my hands on authentic gear."
Scott's eyes flicked to the side—his instincts screaming a split-second warning. He threw his torso laterally.
THWACK!
A heavy round caught him squarely in the back. Had he not twisted away, it would have punched directly through his spine into his heart.
The impact drove the breath from his lungs, but Scott dropped low, pulled a thin throwing dagger from his boot strap, and whipped his arm around in a single, fluid motion.
FLICK—STAB!
The blade flew across the bay, burying itself deep into the shoulder of the shooter crouching behind the nearest SUV. The mobster shrieked in pain, dropping his assault rifle and collapsing behind the armored vehicle.
"Dammit... that still hurts," Scott grunted, clutching his ribs through his bruised jacket. He glared toward the wounded gunman, growling under his breath. "Just because the weave holds doesn't mean the kinetic energy disappears, you bastard!"
Big Dogg chuckled, entirely unbothered by Scott's retaliation. "Don't confuse what I'm wearing with that cheap, low-grade knockoff on your back, Scott. This baby right here was manufactured in Grayson Stark's original private workshop. You know what that means, don't you?"
Scott's breath hitched. "Impossible... Even Vane Industries only managed to secure two original Stark-weave prototypes with all our corporate influence! You expect me to believe a street thug has one?"
"I can tell you're wearing Vane's mass-produced line," Big Dogg scoffed, his expression darkening into a menacing grin. "Let me show you the difference between a prototype and a cheap copy."
Leaning through the open butterfly door of his convertible, Big Dogg reached into the passenger footwell and hauled out a heavy, tactical breaching shotgun. He leveled the massive barrel directly at Scott's chest.
"Let's see if Vane's knockoff weave can stop twelve-gauge tungsten shot," Big Dogg sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Before he could pull it, a heavy hail of automatic fire erupted from behind Scott.
His remaining operative had opened fire from behind the sedan, forcing Big Dogg to immediately raise his jacket over his head again.
Bullets hammered against the reinforced fabric.
Scott's surviving operative—crouching behind the sedan's passenger door—had opened full-auto suppressive fire, driving Big Dogg back.
Without looking,
He simply listened.
He tracked the muzzle flashes.
he pointed the massive shotgun underneath his arm, angled the barrel downward toward the sedan's passenger door, and pulled the trigger.
**BOOM!**
The heavy tungsten buckshot shredded the lower half of the luxury sedan's door, punching clean through the metal paneling and striking the operative's left leg.
"AAAAGH!" The operative collapsed, clutching his thigh. Blood welled between his fingers, staining his trousers dark red.
How is that possible?! the man thought in pure panic. The suit's weave should have deflected the spread! Then the horrifying truth hit him—Big Dogg wasn't firing standard ammunition; he was using heavy anti-armor tungsten slugs.
He looked up through the smoke and saw Big Dogg re-centering the shotgun's sight directly onto Scott's retreating frame.
"SCOTT, MOVE!" the wounded operative screamed. "HIS GUN PIERCES OUR WEAVE! DON'T LET IT TOUCH YOU!"
Scott didn't hesitate. He dived blindly forward toward the driver's side door, raising the flap of his reinforced jacket over his head.
BOOM!
The tungsten slug hit the trailing edge of Scott's jacket, tearing clean through the ballistic weave and gouging a deep, bloody furrow into his left shoulder blade before exiting out his back Another blast thundered behind him.
Pellets ripped through his jacket again.
This time they missed by inches.
Scott let out a strangled gasp of pain, but his momentum carried him through the open door frame. He crashed heavily into the rear floorboards of the sedan just as a second shotgun blast pulverized the concrete where his legs had been an instant prior.
He landed hard, immediately pressing his hand against the wound.
Blood seeped between his fingers.
Big Dogg burst into laughter.
"I knew it."
He slowly lowered the smoking shotgun.
"Vane Industries really can't compare to Stark Tech."
Scott gritted his teeth.
"HA! I proved my point!" Big Dogg shouted over the ringing silence following the blast. "Vane Industries is trash! Stark Tech rules this city, dead or alive!"
"RETREAT! GET US OUT OF HERE NOW!" Scott roared from the floorboards, pressing a hand tightly over his bleeding shoulder wound.
Scott climbed into the back seat.
The driver—the only uninjured man left—slammed the sedan into reverse, flooring the accelerator. The tires squealed violently against the dusty concrete as the heavy sedan slammed backward out of the factory bay, bursting through the secondary entrance and speeding down Scaffail Avenue.
Big Dogg stood in the clearing smoke, a cold, expressionless look on his face. He fired the remaining shells in his magazine toward the retreating vehicle until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
His lieutenant pulled the convertible around, stopping right beside him as the remaining operatives rushed back to their vehicles, ready to pursue.
Big Dogg held up a hand, stopping them. He pointed toward three men standing by the last SUV. "You three—stay behind and clean this floor clean. Not a single trace of brass, blood, or powder."
He stepped into the passenger seat of the convertible, winding down the heavily tinted window.
He gestured toward the dead Vane operative lying near the center of the bay—the one killed early on by the sniper. "And someone pick up that custom Vane sidearm off that corpse. A slow smile spread across his face.
"I think it'll make an excellent souvenir."
With that, Big Dogg rolled the window up. The convertible roared to life, accelerating out of the complex with the two armored SUVs trailing right behind it in lethal pursuit.
Within seconds, the convoy disappeared onto the highway."