"Move! Stay close!" Bella kicked off her heels and shoved them at Kim along with her clutch. "Hold these."
High heels were useless in a fight. The dress she could deal with. The shoes had to go.
Pistol up, she took point.
Bang! Bang!
Two shots. One guard trying to flank them dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
"Kill her! Kill them all!" A portly, curly-haired Frenchman burst out of a VIP box, face purple with rage. Clearly terrified his dirty secrets would get out. Now he only wanted one thing—everyone dead.
Two bodyguards stepped up, guns blazing. Their aim was scary good. Best Bella had seen since Chris Redfield. And they moved like they'd trained together for years, covering each other's blind spots, keeping her pinned.
Shit.
She charged twice. Got pushed back both times.
Alone, she could've bulldozed through. But four girls huddled behind her, and that changed everything.
She dug through her bag, found a compact mirror, thrust it at Kim. "Hold this up. I need eyes on them."
Psionic senses alone weren't cutting it. She needed visual.
Kim just stared. First the shoes. Then the bag. Now a mirror?
But she didn't complain. Hands shaking, she angled the mirror, sweeping it around until—
"There. Hold it."
Bella went still. Calculating. Drawing on her reserves.
The enemy kept pushing. She fired back when she could. Both sides too good to land a clean hit. The firefight dragged on.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Stone chips flew. Dust clouded the air. The fancy carpet got shredded. Some paintings worth more than most people's houses—torn to ribbons. Nobody cared anymore.
Kill or be killed. Simple as that.
Bella exploded from cover.
The Mind Blast was already formed—she hurled it straight into the first bodyguard's skull.
He froze. Eyes glazed over. Just for a second.
A second was enough.
Their perfect coordination shattered. Bella moved—looked slow, wasn't—leaving an afterimage as she dodged the second guy's shots and emptied her magazine into his chest.
The stunned one she grabbed by the head and chin.
Twist. Crack.
Done.
She tossed the empty pistol, scooped up a dead man's gun, and pointed it at the curly-haired Frenchman. He'd collapsed against the wall, pants probably wet.
"Don't kill me! Please! I'm—"
Some big shot, no doubt. Anyone who could afford bodyguards like that had serious pull.
Bella didn't care. Big shot? So what? When you're dead, you're dead. Hell or heaven, made no difference to her.
Five shots to the chest. She tossed the gun aside.
"Keep up." She waved the girls forward.
From there, it was a bloody grind. Broker's guards. VIP bodyguards. She grabbed whatever gun she could find, and when she couldn't find one, Mind Blast did the work.
Invisible. Untraceable. Perfect for killing.
Downside? Burned through her energy fast.
Two minutes later, she found Natasha.
The younger woman had circled around, taken out several VIPs, and pulled three more girls out. Now she was pinned behind a pillar, trading fire with a dozen guards the broker had scraped together. The three girls behind her looked ready to pass out.
"Catch!" Bella tossed her a pistol and mag.
"Took you long enough." Natasha caught them without looking.
"I'm right on time." Bella raised her gun. "Left side's mine."
Two shots. One kill, one wounded.
These guards were a mixed bag. Some were sharp—she fired here, they were already moving there. Others might as well have been standing still.
Hundred percent accuracy? Not happening.
But with fresh ammo and Bella backing her up, Natasha finally had breathing room. She lived and died by her guns. No bullets meant she was running at maybe twenty percent.
Now? Dual-wielding, moving with the kind of grace that screamed future Black Widow, she tore through the opposition.
Bodies dropped wherever they went. Another massacre. No other word for it.
Worse—this was downtown Paris. French citizens. Tomorrow's headlines were going to be nuclear.
They pushed forward, Bella and Natasha clearing the way, a trail of half-dressed girls stumbling behind them. It slowed them down. Couldn't be helped.
They burst into the cocktail party hall.
Chaos. Absolute chaos. Gunfire sent the fancy guests running and screaming, all that elegance gone in a heartbeat.
"Kill them! They murdered the Minister of Energy! General Le Goff! Shoot them down! I'll take responsibility!"
The broker himself. Patrice Saint-Clair. Short guy, slicked-back hair, bow tie still perfect. Looked like a gentleman straight out of a magazine.
Right now, he looked like he was losing his mind.
Quick count—over a dozen VIPs dead tonight. Every single one a heavyweight in French politics. Slaughtered like animals. He had no idea how to contain this.
Bella and Natasha shared a look.
We killed the Minister of Energy? And some general?
News to them.
They opened fire anyway.
The final clash happened in a circular corridor. Bloody. Brutal. One girl moved a half-second too slow—took a round to the gut.
Bella yanked her back. "Kim! Pressure on the wound!"
Both sides had pistols. But the enemy had numbers and training. More than ten of them, moving like soldiers.
No way through. Not yet.
Neither woman panicked. This much chaos? The old agent would come.
One minute later, he did.
Bryan came in like death itself. No mercy. No hesitation. Every shot a kill.
Caught between two fronts, the remaining gunmen didn't last long.
When it was over, only one man was still breathing—Patrice Saint-Clair, leg blown open, barely conscious.