Extra Basket-Chapter 102 - 89: Syndicate Arc (12)

Freeman rose slowly, blood still dripping from his lips. But his eyes gleamed with savage triumph.

"You fools really thought you’d won something?" he said, voice cracking with rage. "You think stopping the children was the end? You’re fucking wrong!!"

The rifles clicked into place. Red dots danced across the torsos of Ethan, Lucas, and the others.

And then—

Pop! Pop! Pop!

A cluster of small canisters burst through the vents above, hitting the floor with a dull clang.

A thick white smoke erupted from them, flooding the lab in seconds.

"Smoke bombs!?" Evan yelled, coughing as the fog swallowed the room. His voice was barely audible over the chaos.

"What the hell is going on!?" Freeman barked, coughing violently. "Scar! Where are you!?"

"ARGH!" "GET BACK!" "I CAN’T SEE!"

Panicked shouts erupted from the mercenaries as the smoke swirled like a living thing, curling around their legs and into their lungs.

Scar, the commander, took a step forward and squinted through the haze, gun raised. "Stay sharp! This is a setup—!"

His words were cut off by a sudden scream. Then another. One by one, the red targeting dots vanished.

Within seconds, the screams stopped.

The fog began to settle.

Ethan narrowed his eyes. "Tch... I can’t see anything."

"I don’t like this," Louie muttered, reaching blindly for Lucas. "Ethan? Where are you?"

"I’m here," Ethan replied through clenched teeth, voice steady despite the confusion.

Then Brandon pointed. "Look!"

All eyes followed his outstretched hand.

As the smoke thinned, a single silhouette emerged from its heart. At first, he seemed unremarkable, a tall man in plain clothes, his hands by his sides, head slightly bowed.

But as the smoke cleared completely, it was clear this man was far from ordinary.

He was built like a fortress. Muscles rippled beneath his simple clothes like steel cables. His calm expression didn’t match the chaos around him, and the way he stood grounded, balanced, unflinching, gave the impression that he belonged in the middle of a battlefield.

Ethan narrowed his eyes. "Who... are you?"

The man didn’t answer at first. Instead, he turned toward Lucas, studying him for a long, silent moment.

Then he nodded, his voice deep and steady. "Apologies, young master Lucas. I’m late."

Lucas blinked. "Do I know you?"

The man looked faintly amused. "Did your mother ever mention me?"

Lucas shook his head. "No... she didn’t."

The man sighed inwardly.

(So... the director hid the truth from him. That someone was watching over him, every day, every hour.)

He straightened. "Pardon me, young master. I am Norris. Your bodyguard. Assigned by the Director...your mother—to watch over you ever since that day"

Lucas’s eyes widened. "My mom? She sent you?"

Norris nodded respectfully. "Yes, sir. I’ve always been nearby. But I wasn’t to interfere unless the threat exceeded your ability to survive."

Freeman’s voice rose again, furious and shaken. "Who the hell are you!? Who told you you could interfere in my operation!?"

Norris didn’t even glance at him.

Scar stood now, surveying the room with horror. Around him, his men—tough, trained mercenaries—lay sprawled across the lab floor, groaning or unconscious. Some didn’t move at all.

"You..." he growled. "You killed my men!"

Norris finally looked at him. "They raised guns at children," he said flatly. "I removed the threat."

Freeman was livid now, face twisted with rage. "You son of a bitch! Do you know what you’ve ruined!? This was supposed to be the beginning! I was building perfection—!"

"Perfection built on torture and stolen lives?" Norris interrupted, calm but firm. "You mistake madness for vision."

Freeman lunged toward him—only to be met with a single step from Norris, who delivered a brutal palm strike to Freeman’s chest. The impact sent the man hurtling backward into a table, which cracked in half beneath him.

The room went still again.

Norris stepped forward, kneeling beside Ethan. He pulled a compact first-aid device from his belt and placed it against Ethan’s bleeding side.

"You fought well," Norris said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Rest now. Reinforcements are already en route."

Ethan winced, his breath ragged. "You could’ve... shown up sooner."

Norris didn’t miss a beat. "My apologies," he said in a deadpan tone. "Traffic."

Louie, leaning against a busted console, couldn’t help but snort. "Okay, I like this guy."

Across the room, Freeman struggled to sit upright, coughing violently. Blood spattered from his mouth onto the floor as his trembling hand pushed him up against the mangled lab table.

"You... idiots..." he rasped, fury still clinging to every word. "You have no idea what you’ve done!"

Then, eyes wild, he screamed, "Scar! Kill him!"

Scar stood tall in the settling smoke, the last man left standing from Freeman’s squad. His scarred face twitched once, then curled into something halfway between a grin and a sneer.

"I suppose my fee just doubled," he muttered, cracking his knuckles.

Freeman nodded frantically, pointing a shaking hand at Norris. "I don’t care what it costs—just kill that bastard!"

Norris turned to face the towering mercenary. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his frame now—a coiled readiness like a panther before the pounce.

His gaze flicked across Scar, analyzing everything in seconds. The man’s stance, the subtle weight distribution in his boots, the callouses on his hands.

Norris’s instincts whispered: He’s not average. This one’s killed before—and enjoyed it.

"You’re strong," Norris admitted. "Not like the others."

Scar smirked, stepping forward with slow, deliberate strides. "Used to be a soldier. Now I get paid a hell of a lot more for pulling the same trigger."

He flexed his fingers. "Nothing personal. Just business."

"I see."

Norris reached behind him and drew a combat knife—not military issue, but one modified, personal. Its edges were worn, lovingly maintained. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was an extension of himself.

He dropped into a low, compact stance. Feet solid, blade angled downward.

Krav Maga.

The most brutal, efficient form of close-quarters combat in the world.

Scar grinned. "You’re gonna fight me with that little thing?"

"I only need one."

Scar drew a serrated machete from a holster on his thigh and cracked his neck. "Then let’s make this worth the money."

Without warning, Scar surged forward like a charging bull.

Norris sidestepped, razor-sharp, like water slipping past a rock. His blade slashed—not wide, not wasteful—but surgically across Scar’s forearm. Blood spattered the floor, but Scar didn’t even flinch.

"Fast." Scar muttered, swinging his machete in a brutal arc meant to tear flesh from bone.

Norris ducked under the swing, twisted inward, and slammed his elbow into Scar’s ribcage. A sickening crunch echoed through the lab—two ribs cracked.

Scar grunted, backpedaled, and lashed out with a knee. Norris absorbed it on his hip, spun, and went for a sweep—Scar jumped, but the knife caught his thigh.

Blood again.

"Not bad," Scar admitted. "Haven’t bled like this in years."

"I’m not here to entertain you." Norris replied coldly.

Scar’s eyes narrowed. "No. You’re here to die."

This time, Scar attacked with precision—he wasn’t just a brute. He’d trained. The way he flowed from strike to strike, backing Norris toward the wall, showed the discipline of a battlefield survivor.

But Norris was trained for something more than war.

He was trained to protect.

He was trained to end threats.

A feint with the knife, a pivot, and Norris closed the distance between them. He struck with the butt of his blade into Scar’s jaw, then a lightning-fast jab to his throat. Scar choked, stumbled.

Norris locked his arm, twisted, and drove his shoulder into Scar’s chest.

They crashed into a metal table.

Sparks flew.

Scar roared, trying to bring the machete down, but Norris slammed his palm into Scar’s wrist, dislocating it with a brutal twist. The machete clattered to the floor.

Then, with a step forward and a shift in balance, Norris flipped Scar over his shoulder—

Slamming him hard into the floor.

The ground shook with the impact.

Scar groaned, reaching for his sidearm—but Norris was already there, foot pinning the weapon down.

"No more," Norris said.

Scar’s breath was ragged now. His hand bleeding. His nose broken.

"You’re strong..." Scar wheezed. "Stronger than I thought."

Norris stared down at him, emotionless. "You chose the wrong job."

And with one precise strike of the hilt, Scar went unconscious.

Silence fell over the room once more.

Freeman stared in disbelief, mouth open, unable to comprehend what he’d just witnessed.

Norris didn’t even glance at him as he turned back toward the group.

Ethan was still leaning against the wall, breathing slower now. Lucas was helping Evan sit up, while Brandon and Louie watched with wide eyes.

"You good?" Norris asked Lucas, walking past Scar’s limp body.

"We live," Lucas muttered. "That... was cool."

Louie was grinning despite himself. "Where the hell did you learn to move like that? You took out Rambo and the Terminator at the same time."

Norris sheathed his knife.

"I’ve had practice," he said.

The words had barely left his mouth when a guttural scream tore from Freeman’s throat. He slammed his fist against the fractured control table, sparks flickering from damaged circuits.

"You bastards! You ruined everything! Do you think this ends with me!?" Freeman howled, eyes wild with hate. "Do you know who funded this?! What we were creating?!"

Ethan didn’t flinch. His voice, low and urgent, cut through the air like a knife.

"Tell me where the key to Site E—East Wing—is."

Freeman’s eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure.

"Hahahahahah... You need the key to save Carter’s son, huh?!" he shouted, the madness in his voice growing louder with each word. "HAHAHAHAHA! That poor kid’s already doomed!"

Brandon’s fists clenched at his sides. "You bastard! What are you laughing at?!"

Freeman spat blood, lips twitching with twisted amusement.

"Too late!" he cried. "The East Wing is on a timer! The chamber will be flooded with poison—five minutes from now!"

Lucas’s face drained of color. "You!!!"

Norris, silent through the exchange, narrowed his eyes. Site E... Carter’s son... poison gas... and These Children lying around here...The pieces were falling together fast, but not fast enough.

Evan stepped forward, his voice trembling. "Principal Freeman... They said you were a great man. That you loved basketball. That you cared about basketball... Why?" His voice cracked. "Why do this?"

Freeman turned to him slowly, eyes bloodshot, teeth bared.

"Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!!" he roared. "You don’t know what it’s like! This cursed world—this goddamned game—only wants talent! They never looked at effort! I gave my all, and the world still said I wasn’t enough!"

He began to laugh again, deranged. "So I made my own way. I created talent! I built the future! You think you’re saving someone?! You’re trying to undo perfection!"

"Give me the damn key!!" Ethan shouted, stepping forward with fury in his eyes.

"I told you..." Freeman rasped. "It’s too late, you bastard. Hahahaha—"

Suddenly—

"What’s too late?"

The voice rang clear and deep through the chamber.

Everyone froze.

Brandon’s eyes widened instantly. "That voice..."

From the far corridor, the shadows shifted—revealing a tall man in a long black coat, striding in with quiet power. Behind him, flanked by two agents in tactical gear, was a small boy with tousled brown hair and wide, confused eyes.

Gerald Young.

Brandon’s father.

Brandon took a step forward, voice barely above a whisper. "Father..."

Gerald’s expression was unreadable—stone-faced, yet behind his eyes, something twisted and torn. He looked at his son, the blood on his cheeks, the bruise on his temple. A storm brewed behind his gaze.

Then he turned toward Freeman.

"Gerald, you traitor!!" Freeman shrieked, pointing with a shaking, bloodied finger. "You betrayed us! You bastard!"

Gerald didn’t respond to the insult. Instead, he calmly walked past Brandon and stood between Freeman and the group, placing a firm hand on the shoulder of the boy behind him—Caleb Carter, just eleven years old, clearly frightened.

The boy looked around the room, eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. "W-What’s going on...? Who are all these people...?"

Ethan’s breath caught.

"(It’s him... Caleb Carter,)" Ethan thought, staring at the small, confused boy.

Freeman, kneeling amidst the wreckage, his body bruised and bleeding, his mind fraying at the edges, still found the strength to scream.

"You were one of us, Gerald! You think your family will be safe after this?!"

Gerald stood tall, eyes unwavering.

"I’ll protect them," he said, voice steady, "even if I die."

Then he looked at Brandon again.

"For my son," Gerald said quietly, almost a whisper. "I failed you once. I won’t do it again."

Brandon, blood smeared across his cheek, looked at his father through a storm of emotion—confusion, anger, love.

"Dad..." he murmured, voice trembling, unsure whether to step forward or retreat.

Ethan caught the look and exhaled quietly. He understood that pain.

He turned his gaze to Lucas, who nodded grimly. Together, they walked forward toward Freeman.

Lucas supported Ethan, slipping under his shoulder, both limping and bloodied.

Ethan spoke, his voice worn but resolute.

"Freeman... it’s over this time."

Freeman’s lips trembled. "No... no, no, no, no..."

His eyes were distant, flicking between the past and present, as if trying to escape the moment. As if refusing to believe that the end had truly come. "Eddie"

Caleb, standing near Gerald, tilted his head, confused. He heard his father’s name.

Eddie Carter?

He stared at Freeman with innocent curiosity, unaware of the chaos that had nearly consumed his life.

Then—

Freeman’s hand slid into his coat.

Lucas’s eyes widened.

"A GUN!!"

Time slowed.

Freeman’s shaking fingers pulled a small black pistol from his pocket, steel catching the faint light.

He stood with a stumble, the gun trembling in his grip, pointed directly at Ethan and Lucas.

"Don’t move!" he screamed.

Norris froze instantly, hand hovering just inches from his own weapon. His stance tightened. One wrong move, and the shot would fire.

The air was razor-thin.

Freeman’s voice cracked as he spoke again, this time quieter—broken.

"I didn’t... want this. I just wanted to win... against Eddie Carter... to be seen as his equal."

The gun shifted, now pointed not at Ethan or Lucas, but at Freeman’s own head.

"I just wanted to be called a prodigy too... To be worthy of the name rival."

His hand trembled violently.

"This is not over."

"NO!!!" Ethan shouted.

"STOP!" Lucas cried, surging forward.

Brandon, Evan, and Louie all moved at once.

"FREEMAN!!"

But it was too late.

Bang.

To be continue