Dark Revenge Of An Unwanted Wife: The Twins Are Not Yours!

Chapter 410: Two Teams III

At the gang’s hideout. 7:35 pm.

The darkness pressed in heavy around the compound, broken only by the orange glow of torches mounted on the perimeter fence and the occasional sweep of flashlights.

The gang’s hideout sat like a crouching beast in the center of the field, its two-storey frame weather-beaten but fortified. Beyond its walls, guards prowled like restless wolves, their chatter drifting across the field, careless, unaware of the storm about to break upon them.

Ewan’s eyes cut across the lines of men behind him. Each was armed, armored, and drilled into silence. Their breathing was steady, but their eyes—hard, cold, and alert—betrayed the fire burning inside.

"Aiden has moved into position," he whispered, pulling his phone from the side pouch and skimming the last text. The glow from the screen lit his face for the briefest second before he tucked it back. "Hopefully, we’ll get feedback from them soon."

He straightened, voice carrying quietly but firmly over the line. "Is everyone ready?"

The men nodded in turn, a ripple of focus shifting through the squad. Even in the gloom, the faint clink of tightened grips on rifles could be heard.

"This place is one of their main dens," Ewan continued, his tone calm but edged with steel. "Ciara’s family is inside. That’s our only target. No distractions. No errors. You see them—you extract. Everyone else? Doesn’t matter. At least not at the moment. The state security would soon be here... they would take care of other details, while covering our trails..."

He paused, letting the words settle. "Stay alive. Stay sharp. And for God’s sake, don’t get cocky."

A chorus of low affirmations followed, voices deep and grave.

Ewan turned last to Zane and Sandro, crouched by the wired fence, already securing their gear. "You two better come back alive," he muttered, though it carried the weight of concern rather than command.

Zane gave a lopsided smirk, his sniper already resting comfortably against his shoulder. "We should be saying that to you."

sidetracked as you usually do. We’re here for

but his gaze lingered a fraction longer

across his back. He scratched

the shot cut the night. The guard jerked once, toppled over the railing, and fell with a sickening thud against the dirt

half a

Then chaos.

whistles blew sharp and

here!" someone roared. Flashlights swung like frenzied beams,

surging forward. His men fanned out in a spread formation, rifles lifted, advancing with steady, crouched

against vests, jerking bodies backward but never dropping them. Their gear held. The men

shots punching neat holes through their

security detail advanced steadily, like a tide. Every time one man fired, another moved.

they were wearing bullet-proof vests, and helmets–well prepared like soldiers in the war front–they weren’t dying victims, even if they were shot, unlike

scrambled, panicking. They ducked behind crates, walls, and barrels, spraying bullets blindly. Their cries rose in anger, fear, and pain as the tactical machine

night, spinning, landing with a metallic clink near

tore the ground, hurling dirt and flame into the air. Shrapnel

cluster of gang members scrambling

lifted his rifle, spraying controlled bursts. Each squeeze of the trigger sent the Kraken-47 roaring, its heavy rounds tearing through cover and dropping men

to adjust his angle when a sudden muzzle flash caught him. A bullet slammed into his left side, jerking him

his ribs, stumbling into

behind the shattered wall of a storage hut. Zane’s face twisted in pain, his hand pressed hard against his vest. Blood seeped