"Mom!" Sophia's cries were heart-wrenching.
Castero could no longer hold back, turning to rush upstairs. The Eastern European cursed and raised his gun, but the Latino young man stopped him: "Wait, something's not right upstairs."
The two cautiously climbed the stairs, guns drawn.
The children's room door was wide open.
Inside the room, Maria tightly held two terrified, crying children, huddled in a corner. And their so-called "Number Three," the silent assassin—was lying face down in the middle of the room, a syringe stuck in the back of his neck, body twitching slightly.
The window was wide open, letting the night breeze billow in.
"It's an ambush!" The Eastern European instantly realized, firing three shots out the window, but only the sound of shattering glass was heard.
The Latino young man's face was pale as he quickly checked Number Three's condition: "Neurotoxin, he's not going to make it. We've been set up."
