The mantis stalks the cicada, unaware of the oriole behind.
Just as Vela left the Eclipse yacht with her companions, night fell. In Roanapur's harbor district, inside the infamous den of scoundrels—the Yellow Flag bar.
Restlessness and clamor, lust and alcohol were the dominant notes here.
The smell of sweat, perfume, and burnt tobacco hung thick in the air.
Suddenly—creak! A black-haired, blue-eyed maid in glasses pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Ignoring the smoky haze and the appraising stares from swaggering tough guys and flashy girls in the hall, she carried her umbrella and suitcase and walked gracefully toward the bar counter.
Paul, the Vietnamese bartender and owner, leisurely reading a newspaper, turned his head at the sound.
"A new face? What'll you have—" He blinked, momentarily stunned as he looked at the elegantly seated maid before him.
She didn't look like a local.
Dressed like she'd walked straight out of a Hollywood period drama. Some new cosplay girl from the red-light district?
Maintaining professional courtesy, Paul flicked his newspaper lightly and reminded her, "Miss, we don't serve milk here."
The maid replied softly, "Then please give me a glass of water."
Paul's face darkened.
You here to mess with me on behalf of a rival?
And ordering water in a bar...
Damn it, that reminded him of a certain pretty troublemaker who smashed his place and mocked him—though he would never admit it was because he'd served watered-down booze first.
Before the maid could ramble on about some "searching for relatives" story—bang! A large beer mug slammed heavily onto the counter.
Smack! Clapping his hands impatiently, Paul snapped, "This is a bar. Order alcohol if you're ordering! Stupid girl!"
Amber beer sloshed across the counter, spreading into a shimmering puddle that reflected the maid's lowered, downcast face.
She silently wiped the beer from her cheek, lifted her head. Behind her round-framed glasses, her eyes were obscured by reflected light. "I arrived in this city today. I can't even tell north from south. I came to seek refuge with a Colombian friend. May I ask where their office is? Do you know?" She continued in an emotionless, almost mechanical tone.
"Dot," Paul cursed in Vietnamese. The muscles in his face twitched. "Miss, does this place look like a travel agency or an employment bureau?"
"It does not," the maid answered immediately.
"Haa..." Taking a deep breath, Paul suppressed his irritation and decided to ignore the strange woman.
Drink or don't. He didn't care.
Just as he turned to serve another customer, the maid quietly picked up the beer mug.
"Hm?" Paul, wiping a glass, glanced at her curiously.
Thirsty?
The next moment—tap, tap tap—chaotic footsteps sounded outside.
Bang! The bar door was shoved open violently.
More than a dozen gang members stormed in aggressively.
The bulges of firearms at their waists were unmistakable.
The once-lively venue fell into dead silence.
Faced with such a scene, the patrons no longer dared to brag or joke. They scattered like frightened birds.
They were from the Colombian mafia—members of the Manizales Cartel.
Before Paul could think further, he heard a sharp crack. Turning toward the sound, he saw the beer mug shatter, foam splashing everywhere.
The strange maid had crushed the thick glass by gripping the handle alone.
Paul's expression changed drastically. With his experience in countless firefights, he instantly realized something.
Searching for relatives? My ass. She was here for revenge.
Realizing he'd be paying for repairs again tonight, the bar owner cursed under his breath.
Damn it! Why is it always me?!
While the strange maid faced off against the Colombian mafia, he swiftly dropped down behind the bar, still cursing, and pulled out a shotgun from the hidden compartment beneath. He chambered a round with practiced ease.
Immediately after came shouts, mockery, and the muffled roar of 12-gauge blasts.
Bang! Bang bang!
Ratatatatat!
...
Gunfire erupted. Pedestrians on the street fled in panic.
"They've started shooting."
"Mm. Sounds pretty intense. But she's alone. Should we intervene?"
"Captain's orders: observe only. Do not interfere. Someone else will handle it. We're just guiding. Those Colombian idiots are doomed anyway."
Outside the Yellow Flag bar, a surveillance team from Hotel Moscow crouched atop a nearby apartment building, observing the conflict through binoculars.
In just a short time, wails and screams echoed from within.
Explosions. Flash bursts. Wood splinters flying. Water and sparks spraying. Glassware shattering in rapid succession.
One unlucky fool, bold enough to sneak closer for a look, was struck by a stray bullet through the window and shrieked in agony.
Some bloodthirsty onlookers shouted from a distance—some of them were patrons who had just fled.
Then, in the blink of an eye—another thunderous boom.
Boom! A section of the bar's outer wall burst outward in a cloud of thick smoke.
Like a furnace exploding, shattered debris and burning timber blasted in all directions.
A mangled chunk of what looked like a human limb slapped onto the broken opening.
Zzzzt. The bar's neon sign short-circuited and went dark.
"Oi, poor Paul," a scar-faced mercenary lying prone on the rooftop muttered. "How many times has that Vietnamese guy rebuilt the Yellow Flag?"
"At least twenty, as far as I know," another replied.
"Tsk tsk. Persistent fellow. We should drop by to show support someday."
As they chatted, the situation shifted again.
From the collapsed doorway, a group of men retreated while firing, scrambling toward the outer wall for cover.
From this angle, the two observers could see clearly: Colombian mafia. More than a dozen went in. Seven came out. The man in the white suit and floral shirt near the doorway, barking orders, was their leader—Abrego. Most of them carried pistols. Two had Uzis and were desperately emptying their magazines toward the interior.
"Abrego underestimated her. Only brought basic self-defense weapons," the Slavic mercenary said, gazing at the breach in the wall.
Through the smoke, he could vaguely see fragments of the rabid maid's movements—umbrella in one hand, suitcase in the other.
Leaping and flipping one moment. Slithering and weaving the next.
Agile. Effortless.
Truly worthy of being FARC's ace assassin—the Hound of Florencia.
Before the two could finish their admiration—bang! bang bang!
A shotgun blast tore through the window frame. The man returning fire from behind the outer wall erupted in bloody holes and collapsed limply to the ground, prompting fresh curses. The two Uzis responded by spraying blindly without even aiming.
The scar-faced mercenary lowered his binoculars thoughtfully and picked up his radio.
"Captain. The Hound is armed with a semi-automatic shotgun modified into an umbrella. Estimated 12-gauge. The canopy appears to be made of bulletproof material. The suitcase contains armor plating and integrates a submachine gun and an RPG."
"Received." On the other end came Balalaika's voice, accompanied by the rush of sea wind.
"Vela, the stage is set. I've already informed Zhang of the Triads."
A cool female voice with a faint smile responded over the radio. "Efficient and reliable as always, Balalaika."
"Save the flattery. If you're truly grateful, send me more clean jobs with good pay and little trouble, Miss Russell, who's washing herself white and going legit. By the way, the Manizales Cartel's local head is also at the Yellow Flag. How big do you intend to make this?"
Before she finished speaking, a distant whump... whump... could be heard.
"VAR Company has arrived," someone reported.
The scar-faced mercenary looked up. Two helicopters, silhouetted against the dying sunset, skimmed low over the shimmering sea, rapidly approaching the Yellow Flag bar.
At that moment, Vela spoke from the other end.
"Kill them all. That's how I operate. Either I don't move, or I strike hard. If we're only going to make a little noise, wouldn't that waste all our inside coordination? If we're making a scene, let's sweep through like a hurricane. Don't worry. I won't leave too many loose ends for your cleanup."
"How considerate. Vadim, coordinate and support. Avoid friendly fire."
"Understood, Captain."
Click.
Vadim, the scar-faced mercenary, ended the transmission and rose to his feet.
Under the night sky, city lights flickered on. Smoke and flames inside and outside the Yellow Flag provided precise targeting for the helicopters.
Whump! Whump!
Soon, the twin-rotor formation—consisting of a modified UH-60 Black Hawk and a Sikorsky S-76—descended under Hotel Moscow's guidance onto an open stretch beside the coastal road.
The moment the landing gear touched down, mercenaries poured out of the cabins.
Each took their position. Dividing into groups—some on guard, some on standby, some seeking high ground.
Vadim strode forward to negotiate with the VAR Company mercenary unit's field commander.
"Ivan! You take Team A and stay behind. Capture Abrego and that Hound of Florencia. Li! Keep an eye on the goods. Kevin, your Team B will act as reserves. Block reinforcements and provide support for the Boss. The rest form Team C with me. We're heading to the Colombian mafia's office in Roanapur to carry out an annihilation operation."
"Go, go, go!"
Very quickly, the more than twenty VAR mercenaries split into three squads and moved out in different directions.
Team A, rifles slung and weapons in hand, bent low under their tall, broad-shouldered captain and rushed straight toward the continuously crackling Yellow Flag bar.
Team B's sniper sprinted toward high ground, while the others fanned out along the roadside, familiarizing themselves with the terrain and locating cover, rapidly establishing intersecting fields of fire.
Team C reboarded the UH-60 Black Hawk. With its cabin doors open, the helicopter lifted off again and headed toward the city center.
Having unloaded its personnel, the now-empty Sikorsky S-76 rose into the air as well, circling the airspace around the Yellow Flag to provide intelligence support for allied operations.
Everything proceeded in orderly fashion.
"Look at their gear and bearing. More regular than the regular army," several Hotel Moscow mercenaries in plain clothes muttered in amazement at the edge of the landing zone.
"Money really is good."
"Isn't it? Among them, there are probably quite a few who used to be our comrades."
"Comrades? Hah... suka blyat, that damned drunkard and his bullshit shock therapy."
"But why are they all speaking English?"
"Because their boss is a Yankee," Vadim said as he walked over.
After a few seconds of silence, he added, "Because we lost the Cold War. Lost our motherland. It's that simple."
He stared at the fully armed VAR mercenaries. Under the dim streetlight, the glow revealed the old scars twisting across his face, the deep lines at his mouth, and the dull sorrow in his unfocused eyes.
"..."
At the same time, inside the battered Yellow Flag bar.
Behind the bullet-riddled counter.
Bullets clanged and ricocheted. Shards of glass and splashes of liquor rained down from time to time.
Bar owner Paul, now filthy from head to toe, crouched on the floor clutching a Remington 1100 shotgun.
Even though half his bar had been destroyed and both sides were still tearing each other apart inside, there wasn't much tension on his face. He even calmly lit a cigarette.
Whether it was fortunate or tragic, thanks to Roanapur's endless gang wars and accidental bloodshed, shootouts were practically routine in his establishment. Long ago, he had reinforced the counter into a structure as bulletproof as an armored vehicle.
"Phew." Exhaling smoke, Paul muttered, "Liquor compensation: ten thousand dollars. Equipment loss: fifteen thousand. Structural repairs: twenty thousand. And besides that..."
Whump! Whump!
The roar of engines and the pounding of rotors shattered the symphony of gunfire.
"Helicopters?" Paul looked up in alarm.
Whose? Reinforcements from the Manizales Cartel? Shit! Don't tell me they're about to carpet the place with firepower?!
"I repeat, I am a servant of the Lovelace family. My name is Roberta. There is something I wish to ask you."
Beneath the swaying chandelier, the maid's leather boots crunched over blood-soaked shards of glass.
"This is the last chance for your survival. Where is Garcia Fernando Lovelace, whom you kidnapped?" she demanded.
Her answer was another barrage of bullets.
Rounds slammed into the counter's armored plating, spraying sparks.
"Go to hell! You damned Hound of Florencia!" Abrego picked up an Uzi and a spare magazine from a fallen companion, cursing as he leaned out and sprayed wildly.
Roberta rolled across the floor like a stubborn mule, narrowly avoiding the gunfire.
Pressing her suitcase against a load-bearing pillar in the hall, her expression darkened.
Fools. If not for fear that the cartel might kill the hostage and her desire to capture and interrogate Abrego alive, she would have already killed the bastard.
And things were dragging on too long.
The commotion outside—was it cartel reinforcements? The police of this sinful city? Or some local power? Should she consider retreating?
Roberta tilted her head slightly, ears twitching to catch the faintest sounds.
Judging by the spacing and discipline of the footsteps... heavy units? Military?
"Hey! Which faction are you with? Mercenaries from E.O. Corp? Zhang's Triads? Or Balalaika's executioners? I'm Abrego! Help me kill her! The cartel will reward you generously!" Abrego shouted toward the outside, his voice grating.
Roberta's expression shifted abruptly, though she quickly regained composure. Only her eyes grew colder.
So the villains were joining forces.
Silently, she opened her suitcase, taking out an RPG, grenades, and smoke bombs, loading her umbrella-shotgun and preparing the firepower needed to escape amid chaos.
Rat-tat!
Short, precise rifle bursts.
Outside the door, a burly man who had been cursing her nonstop toppled over.
Blood sprayed from where his head had been.
Abrego's shouting cut off mid-sentence.
"You—!"
A brief volley answered him.
Everyone except Abrego in his white suit was shot through the head or torso, blood splattering across the walls.
A round struck Abrego's gun hand as well. He screamed and fell.
Then, replacing the cartel's ragtag thugs, was an elite special operations squad Roberta had never seen before.
All clad in camouflage combat uniforms and plate carriers, equipped with fully automatic light and heavy weapons.
U.S. special forces?
Instinctively, Roberta retreated, suspecting that Abrego had exposed her identity and drawn in the Americans. After the Cold War's end and global disarmament, only the victor of that war could afford such an elite force.
Pop! Several smoke grenades were thrown.
The moment the smoke spread, Roberta burst backward and darted toward a side door.
Though she had absolute confidence in her individual combat ability, she wasn't foolish. Charging head-on would be suicide. No matter how many she took with her, it wouldn't be worth it. She had to live. Garcia was waiting for her rescue. The master in Venezuela and the Lovelace family still depended on her.
But—
"Garcia Fernando Lovelace is in our hands."
A deep male voice with a Russian rolling accent pierced through the smoke.
Roberta froze mid-motion and twisted her head back, her face contorting.
"If you want him alive, come out and talk. Hound of Florencia, do not harbor any illusions."
As he spoke, the commander of VAR Company's Team A gestured behind him.
"Mmm—Roberta!"
Garcia's coughing, choked cry rang out from the smoke.