In less than ten minutes, B-team had been completely wiped out. This was the bloodiest battle Owen had ever been part of.
Stay calm. He had to stay calm. He remembered the recklessness he had felt when he first regained consciousness—if not for his bulletproof vest, he would have been among the dead by now.
The fight was still raging, but the longer they held out, the better. A gunfight this intense must have already alerted the authorities—if they could hold on until reinforcements arrived, they had a chance.
But Owen knew the enemy wouldn't give them that much time.
Sure enough, the opposing side intensified their assault and began advancing.
They couldn't let this continue. Owen decided to counterattack.
"Cover me, Monica!"
Monica and the others opened fire, and Owen sprinted toward the flank. Heartbeat and Campbell focused on suppressing the central position, while Owen flanked from the right rear. Monica immediately understood his plan and moved toward the left rear.
"Bang! Bang! Bang-bang-bang!"
Bullet time allowed Owen to aim quickly, though it couldn't guarantee headshots—but hitting center mass was no problem. He took down another enemy, but Campbell was hit.
The battlefield was a storm of flying bullets, and with Campbell down, their central suppression collapsed.
His luck was terrible today—a stray bullet grazed his neck. It was hard to tell if his artery had been hit, but he was bleeding heavily. Heartbeat was desperately trying to stop the bleeding, but it was unclear how long Campbell could hold on.
With the central suppression gone, enemy fire was now focused on Owen and Monica.
Owen took quick, small steps, constantly shifting his aim between the front and left. It felt just like being in an IPSC shooting competition—his shots were rhythmic, precise, and fluid.
Monica was also at her best. The two of them covered each other seamlessly, pushing forward with crossfire tactics.
Owen shot an enemy in the legs, making him collapse in pain. He didn't finish him off—instead, he immediately switched targets to suppress another attacker peeking out.
Monica followed up, executing the downed enemy. Then, she flanked around cover and coordinated with Owen to take down the attacker who had just finished reloading.
Owen was already aiming at the next target.
Monica had felt this before—an almost supernatural synchronization with Owen.
She never needed words.
The moment he fired, she knew exactly what he wanted to do. It was exhilarating. Addictive, even. She had never experienced this kind of perfect teamwork before.
They continued their rhythm—Owen suppressed, Monica executed. Or vice versa.
Click, click, click.
Owen's M4A1 ran dry.
No time to reload. Every second counted—an enemy could pop out at any moment.
Without hesitation, he ditched his rifle, drew his pistol, and kept firing.
They were now at close range—only three or four enemies left.
At this distance, a pistol was more than enough.
Monica's M4A1 also ran dry. Without hesitation, she switched to her sidearm and kept pushing forward with Owen.
One enemy tried to flank Owen, but Monica quickly shot him in the leg. The momentary stagger was all Owen needed—he finished him with a headshot.
A shadow flickered in Owen's peripheral vision. He took a quick step back.
"Bang-bang-bang!"
The bullets meant for him hit the corpse of the man he had just shot.
Seeing their numbers dwindling, the last two enemies retreated, covering each other.
They were trying to escape.
The one-billion-dollar bounty no longer mattered—staying alive was the priority.
They moved back carefully, taking turns suppressing Owen and Monica to avoid any openings.
Owen waited for his chance.
One enemy fired at Monica's position, using a corner for cover.
Owen fired at the corner itself.
The shattered concrete and debris hit the enemy in the face. He flinched, exposing himself.
Monica took the shot. One down.
The last enemy hid behind a pillar, exposing only his gun barrel to fire blindly.
Owen and Monica couldn't get a clean shot.
Monica reloaded her M4A1, but Owen suddenly remembered—the female assassin from Paris.
A crazy idea hit him.
Without thinking, he maxed out his adrenaline.
He visualized her movements, mimicking her technique.
With his right hand, he swung the gun outward and fired.
"Bang!"
The bullet soared into the sky.
Not good enough.
He tried again.
"Bang!"
This time, the bullet barely nicked the pillar.
One last chance—his heartbeat was now over 400 bpm. If this failed, he wouldn't have the energy to try again.
"Bang!"
The bullet curved.
It wasn't a huge arc, but it was enough—the bullet struck the last enemy.
"Thud!"
The black-masked mercenary stumbled out of cover, shocked.
Monica didn't hesitate—three clean shots.
The enemy fell.
Owen exhaled, shaking his sore arm. He reloaded his pistol, scanning the battlefield carefully before cautiously approaching the body.
Monica arrived from the other side. This was the last enemy.
Her final three shots had all been headshots. No need for a follow-up.
Still, Owen habitually kicked away the enemy's weapon.
Monica stared at him, then suddenly said:
"Teach me."
"What?"
"That curved bullet trick you just did."
"You're seeing things. Bullets don't curve."
Owen denied it outright.
No way.
Adrenaline was his biggest secret. Without it, curving a bullet was impossible.
Even pulling it off once had nearly dislocated his arm.
Monica pouted.
"Tch. Stingy."
She walked alongside him as they returned. Neither of them noticed—the moment she had asked, there had been a faint hint of playfulness in her tone.
—
Inside the transport vehicle, Alex was nervous.
After struggling for what felt like an eternity, he had finally freed his handcuffs from the car's interior.
His hands were still cuffed, but at least he could move freely now.
Though he couldn't see outside, he could hear everything.
The gunfight.
The SWAT casualties.
And now—the gunfire was dying down.
He didn't know who had won, but he wasn't going to wait around to find out.
Carefully, he cracked open the door and peeked outside.
Bodies.
SWAT and mercenaries alike.
Not far ahead, someone was treating a wounded officer.
Perfect chance.
Alex jumped out and ran, choosing the least populated route.
He had barely taken two steps when—
"BANG BANG BANG!"
A line of bullet holes appeared right at his feet.
Dirt flew up.
A warning shot.
Slowly, Alex raised his hands.
He turned—and saw that damn face.
Owen.
"Let me go. The full billion dollars—yours. You can do anything you want with it. Just let me go…"
Owen walked up without a word—and smashed the butt of his rifle into Alex's face.
That was for Morris.
Another strike.
For Nicholas.
Another.
For Colson.
Another.
For Campbell.
Another.
For B-team.
Another.
And this one…
For the black-masked mercenaries who died trying to save you.
—
Alex's face was covered in blood.
Owen spat on the ground.
Then, with one final, vicious rifle butt to the head…
"And that one… for the readers' votes."
_________________________
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