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

Chapter 411: Two Teams IV

Chapter 411: Two Teams IV

Ewan had always wondered if he would be in this position again—before an onslaught of bullets, heart hammering, adrenaline surging—after taking his place in his family’s company.

For years, he had convinced himself that boardroom negotiations, corporate deals, and endless paperwork had replaced the days of ducking fire and leading missions. But some things never left a man.

The thought had haunted him often during quiet nights, the question whispering: what if it happens again? What if you find yourself before the barrel of a gun, and your team isn’t there to cover you? What if you’re alone?

Now, with walls echoing with gunfire and shouts, with plaster chipping above his head from a spray of bullets, that question was no longer hypothetical.

And strangely—he smiled.

Because as soon as the trigger pulled, as soon as danger pressed in on all sides, his body remembered. His training came alive in him like muscle memory. His hands and legs moved as if they had been waiting, itching for this exact moment.

Everything synced: his breath, his eyes, the rhythm of his heart. He moved in one accord, in one flow, like a current of water rushing through cracks in stone.

The first man came from the left, bursting forward, gun raised. Ewan didn’t even blink. His pistol lifted, barked once, and the man crumpled, his weapon clattering against the tiles.

But Ewan didn’t stay in one place, not with the incoming angry men. He darted forward, boots striking hard against the floor, then vaulted onto the wall in a smooth arc. His legs found grip where no normal man should have found footing, and he kicked off, twisting his body midair.

Bullets sprayed beneath him, but his pistol spoke more than twice before he landed, each shot finding its mark in the men below. Four bodies hit the ground, their fighting objects limp by their sides, before he even touched down.

The moment his boots kissed the floor, he was already rolling, already firing backward at the enemies chasing him from behind. His movements were so fluid it almost looked choreographed, like he had rehearsed every step.

He crouched as bullets flew past, firing back, sparks flashing from metal scraping against concrete. He ducked beneath a swinging baton, drove his shoulder into the assailant’s chest, and fired point-blank before the man could even gasp. He didn’t linger, didn’t gloat. Every move was transition into the next, a dancer in a ballet of death.

step measured, every breath controlled. Door by door, he moved, shoulder against wood, gun raised. He kicked one open

scenes, naked abused women forced into corners, eyes wide with terror, the criminals using them

at him to shoot, but discipline held him back. He couldn’t

Ewan was hesitating in fear. He didn’t realize Ewan was

when it came—when the criminals finally turned their focus away from him for a second, in order to leave the bed to accost him, thereby leaving the women unshielded—Ewan acted immediately. His pistol spat fire, clean and precise. Three shots. Three men down. He

them whimpered. Ewan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say a

didn’t, the state security service would soon invade the building. Aiden had dropped a tip to

Shoot. Leave. Always moving, always flowing. Some rooms stank of smoke and sweat. Others were dens of gambling or drugs. Each time, he found criminals, and each time, he cut them down with the merciless precision of a

bulbs, and still he

floor, his breathing was heavier, but his focus sharper.

walked slowly, almost crouched, the muzzle of his pistol leading the way. And

A girl. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, her hair tied back

was pale under the hallway’s dim light, but her eyes were

stopped him cold. She reminded him of Heronica. The angle of her chin, the stubborn line of her mouth, even

heartbeat,

that hesitation

hitting the wall with a grunt, settling behind it, just close to the stairs. His pistol nearly

From the sound and

to fight, old man?" she

Him? A sot?

was funny, but because of the absurdity of it—here he was, bleeding, hunted, cornered, and

worst of it,

his pack. Only one