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."

tone was flatter, gruffer. "Don’t get sidetracked as you usually do. We’re here for Ciara’s family—nothing else.

a fraction longer on them

across his back. He scratched at his

shot cut the night. The guard jerked once, toppled over the railing, and

a heartbeat,

Then chaos.

whistles blew sharp and urgent, boots thundered across

someone roared. Flashlights swung like frenzied

in a spread formation, rifles lifted, advancing with steady,

tore across the field. Sparks exploded off helmets, bullets thudded hard against vests, jerking bodies backward but never dropping them.

dropped in quick succession, Zane’s shots punching neat holes through their skulls before they could scream. Another crumpled with his chest torn open from a burst of assault fire.

steadily, like a tide. Every time one man fired, another moved. Cover, shoot, advance. Cover, shoot,

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 the gang

crates, walls, and barrels, spraying bullets blindly. Their cries rose in

grenade arced through the night, spinning, landing with a

ground, hurling dirt and flame into the air.

down a cluster of gang members scrambling to reload. The air filled with the acrid stench of smoke and

heavy rounds tearing through cover and dropping men where they

adjust his angle when a sudden muzzle flash caught him. A bullet

his ribs, stumbling

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