Chapter 12

Saturday, December 18, 2027, The White Tower

Dale had spent the turning his anger to action. He would hit hard, and he would make sure every last one of them paid.

There would be no mercy.

They had breached the peace, crossed the line, and he would erase them for it.

The Tower had emptied out, only a skeleton crew left behind at the Citadel. Six hundred men, all armed, including many that hadn’t been fully inducted, were mobilized. Dale wasn’t leaving anyone that could help behind. Every able fighter would march today.

The interrogations had given him everything he needed. The enemy had two main strongholds—the East London Mosque and the Stepney City Farm, both teeming with fighters, families, and whatever civilian population still bent the knee to them.

They would expect a retaliation, but they wouldn’t be ready for this.

Dale split his force into five companies, each with a coordinated approach. Alpha Company would use the subway tunnels, emerging from Stepney Green and sweeping down toward the farm. Bravo Company would take boats to Limehouse, then march north, closing in from the river. Charlie would lock down the railway tracks, preventing anyone from fleeing south. Delta would circle north, cutting them off from Liverpool Street. Dale, leading Echo Company, would take the direct approach, smashing through from the west and crushing anyone who tried to escape.

The movements were synchronized to hit at dawn, just after 7:00 AM.

The men were eager. Tense. Electric with the thrill of coming bloodshed. The buildings they were heading toward were dense, the streets tangled and cramped. There would be hiding spots, places to make a stand. But Dale wasn’t interested in drawn-out battles. He wanted this quick and brutal—a single overwhelming strike, leaving no chance for the enemy to regroup.

There would be nowhere to run.

As dawn broke, the operation went into motion.

Alpha emerged from the subway tunnels, cutting through Stepney Green like shadows. Bravo landed at Limehouse, moving swiftly through the narrow streets. Charlie locked down the railway, severing the escape routes south. Delta carved its way through the northern alleys, blocking the exits.

Echo moved straight down the centre, led by Dale himself.

At 7:05 AM, they struck.

The first gunshots rang out, tearing through the morning quiet like a thunderclap.

By the time the enemy stirred, it was already too late.

They had been caught off guard, still half-asleep, groggy and barely dressed. Doors kicked in, bodies dragged from beds, bullets tearing through rooms before people could react. The lucky ones died fast.

The rest screamed.

Dale stormed through the mosque’s courtyard, rifle up, his men flooding in behind him. Men scrambled to defend themselves, but the sheer force of the assault crushed them.

His boots waded through blood, stepping over the bodies of those who had tried to run.