Chapter 3: Thirty Seconds

The moment Jack finished speaking, the man embedded in the crowd realized something was wrong.

His head snapped up. Locked eyes with Brian's ice-cold stare.

Shit. Blown.

His hunched posture straightened instantly. The fear in his eyes replaced by something feral.

Next second, he moved.

Right hand dove into his jacket. Pulled a Glock 17.

Three muzzle flashes lit up the plaza.

The bodyguard closest to Sophia took all three rounds center mass. Body jerked backward. Hit the ground hard.

"HOSTILE! PROTECT! PROTECT!" Brian Scott roared, hand going for his sidearm.

Too late.

From the parking lot, two black SUVs rolled down their windows simultaneously. Two Uzi submachine guns emerged, barrels already spitting fire.

Bullets came like rain.

Car windows along the street exploded into spiderwebs. Alarms shrieked.

Three more bodyguards went down before they could draw. Bodies twitched in the bullet storm, blood spreading across concrete in dark pools.

Brian dove behind a sedan. Tried to return fire. A burst tore through the air above his head.

He pressed flat against the ground. Couldn't even lift his head.

From the alley mouth, another shooter emerged with a pump-action shotgun.

Single blast.

The last bodyguard flew backward, slammed into a wall, slid down. Chest cavity obliterated.

Fifteen seconds. Six bodyguards reduced to one. And Brian was pinned down completely.

Sophia dropped into a crouch. Movement practiced. Efficient.

The assassin who'd been hiding in the crowd advanced on her, Glock aimed at her skull.

"Don't move, Ms. Howard." He grinned. "Boss wants you breathing."

This was a coordinated hit.

Firepower. Numbers. Execution.

Total superiority.

Brian tried to fight back. Peeked out. Another burst forced him down.

"Can't let them take Ms. Howard!" he screamed, but he was out of options.

The assassin reached Sophia. Extended his hand toward her hair.

A gunshot.

But not from the assassin.

The man's wrist exploded. Glock spun away across the pavement.

He screamed, clutching his mangled hand, stumbling backward.

Jack stood thirty feet away at the street corner. Right hand held a silver Desert Eagle, barrel still smoking.

He tilted his head. Tone lazy.

"Touch her, and we're gonna have a problem."

The two shooters in the SUVs swiveled their weapons. Opened fire on Jack.

Bullets sparked off the pavement at his feet.

But Jack was already moving.

One roll. Behind a concrete planter. Rounds hammered the barrier, chunks of cement exploding into dust.

"Shit, suppress him!" one gunner shouted.

Both Uzis unleashed. The planter disintegrated under sustained fire, dirt and shredded plants filling the air.

Then—

Two precise shots.

Both gunners' heads snapped back simultaneously. Entry wounds dead center forehead. Bodies slumped against the windows, submachine guns clattering to the ground.

Sophia didn't even see Jack lean out.

Those two shots came like lightning. Accuracy inhuman—headshots under suppressive fire?

The shotgunner in the alley went pale. Raised his weapon.

Boom. The blast tore another chunk from the planter.

But Jack had rolled to the opposite side. Silver Eagle barked three times.

First shot—shoulder. The gunner twisted.

Second shot—thigh. He dropped to one knee.

Third shot—

Right between the eyes.

Shotgunner collapsed backward. Skull cracked against pavement. Blood pooled slowly.

The wounded assassin with the destroyed wrist scrambled to his feet, trying to run.

One shot. Calf.

He went down screaming, rolling on the ground.

Jack rose. Walked toward him casually. Desert Eagle hanging loose at his side, smoke curling from the barrel.

He stopped over the assassin. Nudged his head with his boot.

"Talk. Who sent you?"

The assassin glared up at him through gritted teeth. Eyes full of venom.

"Fuck y—"

Jack shot his other leg.

The man convulsed, shrieking.

"I'll ask one more time." Jack crouched down. Pressed the barrel against his forehead. Voice terrifyingly calm. "Who sent you?"

The assassin trembled. Cold sweat dripped from his face.

"I—I'll talk... it was... Viktor family..."

"Good." Jack nodded. Then—

One shot. Shoulder.

"That's so you remember—don't take jobs like this again."

Jack stood. Blew across the barrel. Turned toward Sophia.

Viktor family. Caine Corporation's cleaners.

Predictable story. But to Jack, they were all the same.

The girl crouched beside the planter, deep blue eyes fixed on him.

Whole thing took under thirty seconds.

Four assassins. Three dead, one crippled.

And Jack looked like he'd just finished a coffee break.

"You okay?" Jack asked, tone returning to its usual lazy drawl. Like he'd just done something trivial.

Sophia blinked. Snapped out of her daze.

"You... you..." She pointed at the bodies, then at the gun in Jack's hand. "What are you?"

"Think of me as a concerned citizen." Jack shrugged. Casually tucked the Desert Eagle back into his waistband. "I just happen to be naturally talented at shooting."

Brian crawled out from behind the car. Stared at Jack with a mixture of shock and awe.

Those shots weren't something a normal person could pull off.

That was top-tier sniper precision.

Under suppressive fire. Moving targets. Headshots.

Even better than... better than the ace marksmen in Delta Force.

Brian swallowed hard. Watched Jack's back.