Gunfire erupted. I became a storm of motion—ducking, weaving, striking. My gun barked twice, dropping two more men. A third charged me with a baton. I sidestepped, slashing his wrist. The baton clattered to the ground. My elbow shattered his nose. A bullet to his gut finished him.
The remaining men tried to flank me. I didn't give them the chance. I moved like a shadow, my knife a silver blur, my gun an extension of my will.
Bullets found their marks—chests, throats, foreheads. Knives sliced through flesh and bone. The street became a slaughterhouse. In minutes, twenty-five bodies lay motionless on the ground, their blood painting the concrete black.
Silence.
I staggered, my breath ragged, my vision swimming. Blood still seeped from the wound in my chest, soaking through my shirt, dripping onto the ground. The car door flew open—Natalya was there, her face pale, her eyes wild with horror and something deeper. Something broken.
