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.

"Are you scared to fight, old man?" she shouted, voice shaking but loud. "Come out, sot!"

Him? A sot?

Despite the burning pain in his leg, Ewan almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because of the absurdity of it—here he was, bleeding, hunted, cornered, and still his pride found the insult ridiculous.

He touched the wound at his thigh, grimacing. The pad he’d worn had taken the worst of it, but blood still seeped through. A surface wound, maybe, but no less painful.

His eyes flicked to his pack. Only one cartridge left.

"One bullet," he muttered under his breath. "Better be worth it."

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

And then he saw it: the broken glass scattered on the floor, catching faint light, reflecting her shadow as she stepped closer. Her boots crunched against it, revealing her exact spot without her realizing.

Perfect.

He steadied his hand, lined up the shot, and fired—not at her chest, not at her head, but at her right leg; mercy prevailing.Chapter 412: Two Teams V

Chapter 412: Two Teams V

Ewan 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 muttered curses, and pressed his ear to the heavy door she had been guarding.

Silence.

what lay behind the barrier. His jaw tightened. The silence could mean one of two things: the room was empty, or

life’s already

of a threat. "One word could save you from bleeding out. Say nothing, and maybe I

pressed into a thin line. Not a sound.

Loyalty.

breathed out slowly. Sometimes he

anyway, tightening it

secure, then rolled his

his boot and drove it hard

swinging open violently, banging against the wall. His

And then—he froze.

man stood in the middle of the room, gun pressed firmly against

boy’s wide eyes were glassy with terror, tears streaking his cheeks, his small chest heaving with shallow breaths. Behind them, Ciara’s parents trembled, both bound, both crying, both whispering prayers that

the criminal snarled, pressing the barrel tighter against the boy’s temple, "and a bullet goes into his

quickly over the man. It-was-white singlet. Faded blue

or thug. Not even ready.

too desperate to save his life. He

do that," Ewan

The criminal grinned, though his lips trembled. "Trust me, it would be

tilted his head, gun still trained. "So you think I’ll answer your questions if you keep them alive? Trading their lives for

appreciate that more than their dead bodies. They’re not useful—just pawns to keep spies

tone was

for it, don’t worry..." He paused, a cruel light

into a hard line. He didn’t

me, do you want to do this the easy way—or do

cracked. His brow furrowed. "You

on the gun. Ewan could see the tremor, the unstable pulse of his hand. The wrong word,

have to put him away

thumb brushed against the cool steel of his pistol, but an idea sparked in his mind. Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip on the

voice softened, dipped into something persuasive. "I’ll make you a trade. Information—for

eyes

away, lowering it slightly. "You want to know who I am? Fine. But you’ll have to let them live. I’ll even throw my gun

a shaky

making a show of compliance. His heart hammered, but his face betrayed nothing. The gun clinked

head and pointed it squarely at Ewan.

to his feet,

discarded weapon. His focus was split—on Ewan, on the gun he was bending to retrieve, on

thigh. A sharp, high-pitched chirp echoed in the room—the alarm for backup. The

all the

wrapping around the hilt of the knife nestled there. His arm whipped forward, muscles flexing, and the blade

man’s throat with a sickening

weapons, hands clawing at his neck. Blood spilled over his chest, bubbling

fell. Only the sobs

had done this too many times before. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, though inside, the

"Are you okay?" His voice was

ropes that bound their wrists. The cords came loose, and he tossed them aside. Ciara’s mother clutched her

Ewan said firmly, helping them to their feet. Their legs were shaky, their

were wailing in the distance, faint but growing louder. The

gun raised, his head jerking

low rumble in his chest. "They’re all

sound of his voice, weapon still

going to shoot me?" Ewan teased

his side. Relief flashed across his face, though he tried to mask it

He motioned for Ciara’s family to walk ahead, keeping himself at the rear,

hurried down the stairs, he asked, "Did we lose any

though his brow furrowed. "But we have a lot of injured. Good thing you insisted on the truck. You

lips quirking. "Like you don’t know

He asked, seconds later.Chapter 413: Being

Chapter 413: Being Present

your liking?" Antonio’s voice was able to coax Athena from her thoughts about the mission she wasn’t

injured? Especially those that

throat bobbing as she forced her focus back to the present, and picked up her cutlery

had gone on a mission to retrieve Ciara’s parents—she wasn’t sure if Zane would be able to keep the truth from his father if he came

she glanced at the time

Athena looking at her watch passed the wrong message to Antonio. He frowned, his brows knitting

I boring you? Do you

which had been dancing aimlessly on her plate, stilled in her

do you mean, Antonio? I

jaw tightening. "You act like I am. I have been the only one talking, and

she could tell Antonio everything—because then he would understand. But the need not to burden him with problems,

her lower lip and scooped food into her mouth thereafter, after

Antonio. I’m just occupied with solving the recent case ravaging the state, or will soon be. You should understand my place

It’s possible that you finding out the location had upended their plans. You should think about the positives only. Or did you find

her head slowly, her eyes

for her left hand, engulfing her soft hand with his warm, steady one. "Quit worrying too much, Athena. It’s not good for your health. You are a doctor, so

should be." Easier said than done.

his day at work, even as she tried

hadn’t gotten an update from him since the last one where he had informed her they would be going into position in the next five minutes. She

about yours? What did you do at the lab if you had nothing