Chapter2

The lead man's tactical boots slammed onto the Persian rug in the entryway.

His knees buckled abruptly. Glass shards, concealed beneath the soft pile, effortlessly pierced his flexible soles. He instinctively stepped back to regain his footing, planting his boot squarely into the pool of motor oil I had laid down.

A heavy thud echoed through the darkness. The back of his head smashed against the floor, his tactical helmet emitting a hollow clunk.

I glided from the shadows behind the sofa like a low-prowling predator. My left hand precisely pinned his forehead, while my right hand drove a claw hammer upward in a brutal arc.

The metal claws bit viciously into his jawbone. A crisp, sickening crunch echoed out. Before he could even choke out a cry for help, his entire jaw contorted out of shape, and his body instantly went limp.

The second killer on the left reacted with lightning speed. A red laser dot darted from the wall straight to my chest.

The silenced pistol let out a muffled spit. The bullet grazed my cheek and shattered the vase behind me.

I didn't flinch. Snatching a wide-mouthed glass jar from the coffee table, I hurled high-octane gasoline directly into his face.

The faint muzzle flash from his shot became the ultimate, lethal catalyst. The highly concentrated gasoline vapors permeating the air ignited instantly.

Boom!

A massive orange fireball erupted in the center of the living room. The second killer was instantly engulfed in flames. Dropping his weapon, he clawed at his face, thrashing and rolling in agony across the burning floor. The stench of charring flesh assaulted the nostrils.

Right at that moment, the click of a turning lock echoed from the master bedroom.

A beam of hallway light abruptly sliced into the living room. Overcome by panic, my father had shoved the door open and rushed out. "What's go—"

His voice was cut dead.

The final killer, who had been scrambling for cover, lunged forward like a cheetah. He caught my father in a vicious chokehold, dragging him into a human shield. The still-warm muzzle of his gun pressed brutally against my father's temple.

"Drop your weapon!" the killer barked, his voice ragged with heavy panting. His finger was already tightening on the trigger.

My father was frozen stiff, his pupils quivering wildly. Half of the killer's face was concealed behind him, leaving only a single, bloodshot eye exposed.

Without a fraction of a second's hesitation, I raised the modified industrial nail gun. My thumb flicked the high-pressure valve open, releasing a piercing, pneumatic hiss.

Less than three meters away. I pulled the trigger.

Thwack—

The four-inch, heavy-duty steel nail ripped through the air. It grazed my father's ear and surgically pierced the right side of the killer's exposed trachea. The massive kinetic energy violently snapped his head back, pinning him securely to the load-bearing wall.

Blood sprayed down the wall. The killer's hands clawed frantically at the steel spike in his neck. His legs twitched a few times before he went entirely limp.

A thick, nauseating blend of metallic blood and charred flesh permeated the hallway.

My father's legs gave way, and he slumped to the floor, gasping for air. My mother stood clutching the doorframe, both hands clamped tightly over her mouth. They stared at me as if looking at a complete stranger—a monster.

I stepped forward and pried the Glock pistol from the still-twitching fingers of the corpse pinned to the wall. I expertly racked the slide, chambering a round.

"You... you killed them..." my father's voice trembled.

The piercing wail of police sirens suddenly tore through the night. Flashes of alternating red and blue light sliced through the blinds, casting mottled shadows across the wreckage of the living room.

"The police! The LAPD is here!" My father acted as if he had just grasped a lifeline, struggling to his feet. "We're saved!"

I seized him by the collar and shoved him hard back into the corner.

Turning to the window, I used the gun barrel to part the blinds just enough to peek through.

Four classic black-and-white cruisers were parked below. But the officers stepping out? Not a single one wore a body cam. They moved with synchronized precision, wielding suppressed submachine guns as they advanced on the apartment building in a tight tactical formation.

"Look at their spacing," I said, letting the blinds snap shut to cut off the flashing lights. "They aren't here for a rescue."

My father froze, the newly kindled hope in his eyes instantly snuffed out.

"That's a hit squad bought and paid for by the Vance Syndicate." I activated the laser sight on my gun, resting the crimson dot dead center on the front door. "The real death trap has only just begun."