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.

He pushed deeper into the hallway, every step measured, every breath controlled. Door by door, he moved, shoulder against wood, gun raised. He kicked one open thereafter and froze for a fraction of a second.

Inside were things that made his stomach twist—obscene scenes, naked abused women forced into corners, eyes wide with terror, the criminals using them like shields.

His finger tensed on the trigger, instinct screaming at him to shoot, but discipline held him back. He couldn’t risk hitting innocents.

The nearest thug smirked, thinking Ewan was hesitating in fear. He didn’t realize Ewan was waiting for the perfect moment.

And 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 lowered his gun slowly, letting the ringing silence fill the room.

The women blinked at him, trembling. One of them whimpered. Ewan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say a word. He turned, leaving the door wide open, a silent invitation for them to run. To escape.

But even if they didn’t, the state security service would soon invade the building. Aiden had dropped a tip to them, a late one, intentionally.

Ewan, meanwhile, repeated this through the rooms. Kick. Enter. Judge. 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 man trained for this exact nightmare.

Blood pooled on the floorboards, shadows stretched long under the flickering bulbs, and still he pressed forward, one door after another, one body after another.

By the time he reached the stairs to the last floor, his breathing was heavier, but his focus sharper. He climbed step by step, his pistol steady, eyes scanning every corner.

The second floor greeted him with silence—a silence he didn’t trust. He walked slowly, almost crouched, the muzzle of his pistol leading the way. And then...

A figure stood at the end of the corridor, just outside a heavy door. A girl. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, her hair tied back messily, a rifle steady in her hands.

She was pale under the hallway’s dim light, but her eyes were hard, defiant. She raised her gun, and Ewan froze.

Something about her stopped him cold. She reminded him of Heronica. The angle of her chin, the stubborn line of her mouth, even the way her hands shook but held steady anyway.

For a heartbeat, he hesitated.

And that hesitation cost him.

The crack of a gunshot ripped through the corridor, and searing pain tore into his thigh. He groaned, staggering back, hitting the wall with a grunt, settling behind it, just close to the stairs. His pistol nearly slipped from his hand, but he gritted his teeth and held on.

The girl kept shooting, each round tearing into the walls around him. From the sound and rhythm, he knew she was getting closer, step by step.

old man?" she shouted, voice shaking but loud. "Come

Him? A sot?

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

worn had taken the worst of it, but blood still seeped through. A surface

to his pack. Only

bullet," he muttered under his breath. "Better

inhaled slowly, counting seconds, mind calculating, heart steadying. He needed her to take position—somewhere predictable, somewhere he could end it with

scattered on the floor, catching faint light, reflecting her shadow as she stepped closer.

Perfect.

steadied his hand, lined up the shot, and fired—not at her chest, not at her head, but at her

412: Two

left the bleeding girl where she writhed on the floor, clutching at her wounded leg, her defiance still smoldering in her glare even through the pain. He ignored her spit, ignored her

Silence.

behind the barrier. His jaw tightened. The silence could mean one of two things: the room was empty, or someone inside was waiting—poised,

even going to say anything when your life’s already hanging by a thread?"

carrying the sharp edge of a threat. "One word could save you from bleeding out.

line. Not a sound.

Loyalty.

slowly. Sometimes he hated the

reached up, fingers tugging on the strap of his helmet. It was still snug, but he adjusted anyway, tightening it until it

chin-strap twice, ensuring it was secure, then

lifted his boot and drove

lock splintered, the door swinging open violently, banging against the wall.

And then—he froze.

of the room, gun pressed firmly against the head

were glassy with terror, tears streaking his cheeks, his small chest heaving with shallow breaths. Behind them, Ciara’s parents trembled, both bound,

snarled, pressing the barrel tighter against the boy’s temple, "and

Faded blue boxers. Feet bare. His hair was

good shooter or thug. Not even ready. Ewan

must have rushed here when the shooting started, too desperate to save his life. He had chosen to make a last

do that,"

it would be my utmost pleasure. But

still trained. "So you think I’ll answer your questions if you keep them

eager. "Exactly. My boss would appreciate that more than their dead bodies. They’re not useful—just pawns to keep spies

Ewan’s tone was cold. "You mean

out, then. Stupid girl who can’t get anything right. She’ll pay for it, don’t worry..." He paused, a cruel light flashing in

into a hard line. He didn’t blink.

want to do this the easy way—or do

the criminal’s bravado cracked. His brow furrowed. "You cut off

the tremor, the unstable pulse of his hand. The wrong word, the wrong twitch,

him away

of his pistol, but an idea sparked in his mind. Slowly, deliberately, he loosened

voice softened, dipped into something persuasive. "I’ll make you

criminal’s eyes

to know who I am?

curved into a shaky grin.

floor, inch by inch, making a show of compliance. His heart hammered, but his face betrayed nothing. The gun clinked softly as it touched the

criminal said, his grin widening. He shifted his gun from the boy’s head and pointed it squarely at Ewan.

rising to his feet, palms open, expression

was split—on Ewan, on the gun he was bending to retrieve, on

button on the strap at his thigh. A sharp, high-pitched chirp echoed in the room—the alarm for

was all the distraction Ewan

waist, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the knife nestled there. His arm whipped forward, muscles flexing, and the blade spun through the air with

knife buried itself into the man’s throat with a sickening thunk, before the

his neck. Blood spilled over his chest, bubbling from his lips as he crumpled to the