READ NOVEL FREE Chapter 6: The Enemy at the Gates
The drizzle dripped from the edge of the awning, forming heavy droplets that splashed onto the pavement with a dull plop. Two guards stood by the massive gate, watching the empty street with the bored indifference of men used to waiting for nothing to happen.
"Did you hear about that mess down by the west docks?" drawled the first guard, a tall man with sharp cheekbones and a week's worth of stubble. "Some psycho was carving people up with knives. Like a butcher."
"Knives?" The second guard, younger, with darting eyes that flicked between shadows like a rat sensing danger, snorted. "Knives are a joke against bullets. Real suicide material. Speaking of which—did you put money on the merger yet? I hear stocks are gonna skyrocket."
The taller guard smirked, arching a brow.
"Merger, huh? Big money in it, sure… but it stinks. You know how our boss plays. No moves without blood in the water."
"Yeah, but who cares? We get paid either way," the younger one chuckled, a note of pride in his voice. "We're just here to look tough, maybe fire a shot or two if—"
A sharp crack cut through the rain-soaked silence.
He turned his head just in time to see his partner jerk once, his expression emptying as he toppled backward like a marionette with its strings severed. A tiny, dark hole marred the center of his forehead, a bead of crimson welling up and running down to mingle with the rain.
"Shit—" the younger guard gasped, his hand flying to his radio. "We've got an atta—"
A flash—clean and silent—sliced through the murk. Pain bloomed instantly, hot and sharp like a knife slipping between his ribs, cutting the breath from his lungs. His fingers twitched, but his body no longer obeyed him. Warm blood soaked through his uniform, spreading across his chest like a crimson handprint.
Footsteps—soft, predatory—echoed behind him. Dark shapes materialized from the shadows, blending with them as if born from the night itself. Their faces were hidden beneath sleek masks, and their movements carried a deadly grace too smooth, too practiced to belong to ordinary men.
As the last shuddering breath slipped from his lips, one of the operatives raised a gloved hand, slow and deliberate, like a conductor guiding the final, haunting note of a symphony of death.