Late at night, in a secluded villa on the outskirts of Paris, several armed guards patrolled the premises. Their conversations were a chaotic mix of Egyptian Arabic, Russian, and even Albanian, yet somehow, they seemed to understand each other.
A silent bullet sliced through the air.
One of the guards turned his head, about to say something to his comrade—just in time to narrowly avoid a fatal shot.
The bullet grazed past his ear, shattering his earpiece into tiny fragments. Small shards cut into his skin, causing a sudden sharp sting.
"Shit!" The guard yelped, instinctively reaching up to touch his ear.
His fingers came away covered in blood.
His eyes widened in horror.
"Enemy attack!"
"Stay alert!"
"Find cover!"
"Where is he?! Does anyone see him?!"
The guards didn't panic. They were trained. Instead of blindly firing back, they immediately took cover behind walls, pillars, and vehicles, scanning the darkness for the shooter.
Crack!
A second shot rang out—this time, it hit a stone flowerbed.
Shards of rock sprayed into the face of another guard who had been peeking out to look for the sniper.
With a bloodied face, he collapsed, groaning in pain.
——
Hidden 300 yards away, Castle muttered to himself like a mantra:
"Fire one shot, change position. Fire three shots, then move again."
He ducked behind a pillar, clutching his rifle tightly.
His first shot had been fine. By the second, his hands were shaking uncontrollably. Now, his heart was pounding, his breath was ragged, and his legs were cramping from sheer nervousness.
Only now did he truly understand what Jack had meant about professional skill. Landing back-to-back headshots in a firefight? That was not something a novelist could just "pick up" on a whim.
Still, he was being too hard on himself.
If Jack were watching, he'd probably clap him on the shoulder and say:
"For a first-timer, hitting targets at 300 yards? That's assassin-level work."
Taking a few deep breaths, Castle steadied his aim and fired one last shot at a guard attempting to peek out.
He didn't wait to confirm the hit.
Slinging the L129A1 onto his back, he turned and sprinted toward a nearby Renault 5 electric car, disappearing into the night.
——
Meanwhile, inside the villa, chaos erupted.
The rear garden patrol teams rushed toward the front yard, taking cover behind pillars, walls, and flowerbeds.
A man, clearly in command, shouted into his radio in Russian:
"Two-man teams! Sweep the area! Find the sniper!"
The guards hesitated. They knew how dangerous this task was.
As they begrudgingly paired up and prepared to move out—
Two black-clad figures silently vaulted over the back wall.
——
"Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!"
Jack's suppressed Viper handgun spat death like a whisper.
The 9×21mm armor-piercing rounds—designed by the Soviet Central Precision Engineering Institute—easily punched through the soft body armor of the guards.
Each bullet found flesh.
Each target collapsed without a sound.
——
From the villa's entrance, a guard—still unaware of the slaughter happening behind him—peeked out into the darkness, scanning for threats.
"Hey!"
A voice greeted him from behind.
He spun around—
The last thing he saw was a shiny, bald head reflecting the moonlight.
Frank grabbed him and twisted his neck 180 degrees.
Crack!
Before the body even hit the ground, Frank snatched his MP5 and unleashed a burst of gunfire toward the second-floor hallway.
A gunman—who had just stepped out of a room to investigate—screamed as bullets tore through him, sending him flipping over the railing.
His corpse crashed onto the marble floor below.
——
"BOOM!"
A muffled explosion rumbled from the basement.
The entire villa trembled.
The lights flickered—then died.
Darkness engulfed the mansion.
——
"Squad One, respond!"
"Squad Two, report!"
A terrified guard, crouched behind the staircase, fumbled with his radio.
When he looked up again—
A gun was pressed against his forehead.
"Where are the girls?" Jack asked in Russian.
The man shook his head frantically.
Jack wasn't sure if he didn't understand or was just playing dumb.
Switching to Arabic, he repeated: "Where are they?"
Still, more panicked head-shaking.
Then the guard started babbling in Albanian.
Jack sighed and pulled the trigger.
"Pfft!"
The guard crumpled.
Jack's silencer turned toward another figure emerging from the basement stairs.
"It's me."
Brian's hoarse voice called out.
Jack tilted his aim slightly, sending a bullet past Brian's ear—
Right into a wounded enemy trying to crawl away.
Brian didn't even flinch. "They're not in the basement."
"Not on the first floor, either," Frank added, stepping out of a side hallway.
The three men shared a look—then turned their gazes upstairs.
Jack reloaded his Viper, grabbed an MP5 from a corpse, and muttered,
"Then let's find Volkov."
——
A low hum filled the air.
The backup generator kicked in, casting dim yellow light over the bloodstained walls.
Jack stepped into the second-floor hallway—then instantly pulled back.
"Tat-tat-tat-tat!"
Bullets ripped through the wall where he'd just stood.
A gaunt old man emerged at the other end of the corridor, AK in hand, firing wildly.
"Sean! I know it's you! Stop hiding like a coward!"
Jack ducked behind cover, confused. "Who the hell is Sean?"
"Sounds like a fake name," Frank muttered.
Jack rolled his eyes.
"Like 'Frank Moses' is your real name? Yeah, sure."
Reaching behind him, he pulled out a rusty M84 flashbang.
"This thing still work?"
It was from Frank's safe house collection—probably over a decade old.
"Only one way to find out," Frank said, casually swapping a fresh mag into his Beretta 92F.
Jack yanked the pin and tossed the flashbang down the hall.
It bounced twice—landed at the old man's feet—
"Pffffft."
Nothing.
It was a dud.
"HAHAHA!" The old man laughed. "Still the same coward, Sean! Why don't you fight like a man?!"
He fired another burst down the hall in retaliation.
"Pfft! Pfft!"
Two suppressed shots echoed from behind him.
The two massive bodyguards at his side dropped dead instantly.
Brian lowered his pistol.
Before the old man could react, four more bullets shattered his limbs.
He collapsed in a heap, blood pooling beneath him.
Frank stormed forward and pressed his boot onto the man's broken ribs.
"Where are the girls? Where is my granddaughter?!"
The old man grinned through bloody teeth.
"Learned to rely on help, old friend? Guess you really are getting soft. What should I call you? Sean? George? Roger? Timothy?"
Frank shot him in the leg.
"It's Frank. Just Frank."
"Kill me," Volkov spat blood. "Like you killed Anna."
Brian, seething with fury, dug his fingers into Volkov's wounds.
The old man shrieked—then suddenly went limp.
Jack lunged to check his mouth—too late.
A sharp scent filled the air.
Cyanide.
Frank's hardened exterior cracked—his eyes glistened.
"That bastard… he played us."
______
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