"You're giving authorization that easily. Aren't you afraid your subordinates might lose and end up with nothing?" Koko asked Vela.
"If someone who's been out of practice for so long can still beat Ivan, then letting them off the hook wouldn't hurt," Vela replied lightly. "At worst, it's just a casual move on the board. The only question is whether we profit more or less."
What she wanted was Roberta herself, not the Lovelace family's handful of stragglers.
Just a declining household clinging to inherited assets. Hardly worth mentioning.
But clearly, others didn't see it that way.
She's completely confident she can swallow the Lovelace family whole. Beneath Koko's willow-leaf brows, her blue eyes narrowed slightly. With a teasing tone, she asked, "What if the Lovelace family refuses your 'kindness'?" She deliberately emphasized the word "kindness."
"Then we handle things by the book. Everyone loses," Vela said with a smile, spreading her hands.
How do you handle things by the book? Corporate warfare.
"I've already dispatched people to Venezuela. A negotiation team, plus assassins as insurance. Acquisition or investment, ally or enemy, it all depends on what choice that crybaby young master makes. Of course, that's assuming he wins against Ivan." One sentence summarized it perfectly: you might make a profit, but I will never take a loss.
The more outstanding the talent Roberta displayed, the more pleased Vela became, and the more willing she was to spend money.
"Planning for loss before profit. Ms. Russell truly is a model of the business world," Koko said, her praise dripping with irony.
"Crafty and seasoned. Truly admirable," Balalaika added at just the right moment.
The flattery, combined with the earlier conversation and the decaying streets outside the car window, made the atmosphere almost unbearable.
"I'll assume you're complimenting me," Vela said, shooting them a sidelong glance, her brow slightly furrowed in annoyance.
How could she not hear the sarcasm?
Damn it. All of them were masters of veiled mockery.
Obviously, Koko and Balalaika were projecting their own logic onto her, assuming that Vela's actions were merely an attempt to devour the rare earth resources within Lovelace territory. Her supposed interest in the Hound of Florencia was just a convenient excuse.
What a declining age...
Her own kindness and restraint could not be explained to outsiders. A pity.
Just as Vela, suddenly bored, was about to change the subject, she noticed Koko turning her head away and giggling. Her brows lifted slightly.
Oh? Feeling cheeky again?
In the next instant, malicious intent rose in Vela's heart, and a wicked smile spread across her face. "Koko."
"Hm~?" Koko, who had been swaying her head while critically observing the revealing outfits of streetwalkers, instantly became alert.
"Since you're already here, how about writing an inspection report?"
"Huh?!"
"What do you mean 'huh'? Don't you always compare yourself to Jormungand? Without accumulating small steps, how will you swallow the five continents and drink the three oceans? I'll give your father a call later and tell him about your ambitions and efforts. I'm sure Mr. Floyd will feel very gratified by your advanced study plans."
Vela smiled sweetly as she continued, "After all, the path you've chosen needs the support of mature and steady elders. More communication, more observation, more writing. It'll benefit you greatly. Right? No need to thank me."
Koko's face immediately collapsed into a miserable expression.
"You're serious?"
"What do you think?"
Retaliation. This was naked retaliation!
Koko despised Vela's habit of resorting to dignified yet underhanded tactics whenever she couldn't win an argument, but there was nothing she could do about it.
No need to think. If this really became serious, her old man would definitely side with Vela.
And Kasper would probably egg things on even more.
Knowing she couldn't escape the trouble, she reluctantly raised her hand in surrender. "Tch. Can it be shorter?"
"Not much. How about three thousand words?"
Koko let out a sigh of relief.
Thank goodness. At least it wasn't a ten-thousand-word monstrosity.
But on second thought, her leisurely trip to Roanapur had just been turned into homework, and she was supposed to feel grateful for it?!
Damn!
The more she thought about it, the more depressed she became.
In truth, even without reminders, she would normally take notes out of habit. But when a hobby turned into work, and spontaneous travel reflections became a formal research report backed by evidence... it felt like having her favorite song turned into a blaring morning alarm.
And she was certain Vela had dug another trap. If she refused, recommendations for training courses, advanced programs, and specialized classes—all supposedly for her own good—would land on her father Floyd's desk. Then she'd be dragged back into the painful life of elite education again. Lehm, Valmet, and the others would absolutely welcome that outcome. Don't ask how Koko knew. She had suffered through it as a child.
Hah!
Koko chose the pragmatic route and compromised.
Fine. She'd write it. Where could she run anyway?
Writing a report wouldn't kill her.
She treated it as motivation. Koko knew she loved letting her imagination run wild, constantly generating ideas but also plagued by procrastination. Many of her travel observations about geography, history, culture, and local customs remained only as mental drafts rather than systematic written records.
Seeing Vela quickly subdue Koko and then turn her gaze toward herself, Balalaika crossed her legs and joked, "Do you need me to write a 'City of Evil Business Environment Report' as well?"
"No. Just cover tonight's expenses."
Balalaika's smile froze. "Are you Plyushkin? Who asks favors like that?"
"That's why it's my personal expenses," Vela replied calmly. "The cure for worry is being treated. Consider it compensation for emotional damage. Relax. Do I look like someone who lacks moderation?"
Whether she did or not, this woman lived extravagantly, was picky, and could eat a lot. Balalaika forced a smile. "Work's been slow lately. Not much profit."
"Charge it to your private account."
"I'm poor. No money."
"Then take a loan. Pay it back later after you edit videos again."
"Suka!" A Slavic curse.
...
The joys and sorrows of people are never the same.
While Vela and the others joked about their post-event entertainment, elsewhere—outside the smoke-filled Yellow Flag bar.
Figures moved amid the heat haze. The blazing temperature baked the surrounding concrete, shattered glass reflecting infernal flames across the ground. Amid the clanging sounds of combat came chaotic shouting, layered with the incessant buzzing of cicadas that only added to the oppressive atmosphere.
"Stop! Please stop fighting!"
"Roberta, stop already!"
Garcia, collapsed on the ground, wore a grief-stricken expression as he shouted hoarsely.
On the battlefield, however, two figures—one tall, one short, a mercenary and a maid—continued their clash as if unaffected. Their movements grew increasingly fierce, making even the spectators' hearts pound in alarm.
VAR Company mercenaries surrounded the area, eyes locked on their target, fingers resting on triggers, ready for any sudden change.
Li, assigned to guard the "hostage," sucked in a breath of hot air. After glancing at the frantic Garcia, he clicked his tongue and asked, "How much longer until the Boss arrives?"
The accompanying technical specialist, carrying a camera to record the battle, replied without turning his head, "Two to three minutes."
One of the crouching mercenaries spoke up at the right moment, "So we're just going to stand here and watch?"
"What else? The Boss wants her alive. Captain Ivan has authorization and is more than happy to fight," Li replied irritably. "What, your hands itching? Want to replace the captain and take on that ferocious woman yourself?"
"Uh..." The mercenary glanced at the agile, savage "mad hound" in the arena and quickly shook his head.
That would be suicide.
Even masochists weren't that extreme.
"Still, that woman is tough as hell. Takes a beating like nothing," he remarked, licking his dry lips as he looked forward—
The bar burned. Flames swayed. Smoke drifted and twisted.
In front of the building, on the road, two figures fought in brutal close combat.
Former FARC fighter Roberta and former Red Army soldier Ivan Dragunov.
Both were monsters of muscle and bone, individuals gifted with overwhelming physical strength. Once they clashed, it was like needle against blade.
Bang! Bang!
Shouts and the sounds of flesh being struck rang out almost every second, punches landing solidly, every move ruthless.
"Hah!!"
After several exchanges at close range, the two crossed paths again. Clothes torn, faces smeared with dust and blood, Roberta exhaled sharply. With a ferocious expression, she turned, bent her arm to block, and deflected Ivan's heavy punch. In the same instant she lowered her body, stepped forward, clenched her free right fist, and swung sideways toward his jaw—fast, precise, and vicious, her maid uniform snapping sharply with the motion.
Ivan calmly raised his arm.
Thap. A dull impact.
Seeing her hook blocked, Roberta showed no surprise. She instantly changed tactics, turning her fist into an open palm, gripping his shoulder, leaping forward with borrowed momentum, locking onto him with a knee strike aimed squarely at his torso.
Ivan countered smoothly, stepping back while bending at the waist and tightening his core, narrowly evading thanks to his height advantage.
Roberta adapted immediately. Releasing his shoulder, she leaned back, thrust her hips forward, driving her core into a follow-up front kick.
Thud! Direct hit to the chest.
Ivan staggered back several steps, pain flashing across his face.
If that kick had landed on an ordinary person, even with protective gear, they would have been down instantly.
But for a former Soviet heavyweight boxing champion like Ivan, whose resistance training was second nature, the force was bearable. Especially since he wore a tactical vest with armor plates and composite padding, while Roberta fought in retro Mary Jane shoes that matched her maid outfit.
Enduring the dull ache and pressure in his chest, Ivan quickly regained his stance, baring his teeth as he advanced instead of retreating.
Roberta also pressed forward, intending to expand her advantage before he stabilized. But his durability and reaction speed exceeded her expectations. As she prepared a side kick, Ivan was already upon her. With no time to think, she converted the side kick into a reverse hooking kick aimed directly at his bloodshot eye.
Ivan instinctively halted and leaned back.
Exactly what Roberta wanted.
Her eyes turned cold. Twisting her waist, she shifted midair without letting her foot touch the ground, transforming the motion into a high whip kick. With all her strength, she struck viciously toward his head.
Bang! Sweat sprayed through the air.
"Urgh!" Even though Ivan reacted quickly and raised his arm to block, the heavy blow still shook his stance.
Roberta pressed the advantage immediately. As her whip kick retracted, she hopped forward, switching legs into a horizontal kick, followed by a rear-hand hook and a rapid front-hand jab, relentlessly targeting his face—striking the jaw, aiming for the eyes, attacking the groin—some attacks tricky, others brutally direct. Fists and kicks flowed seamlessly, forcing Ivan onto the defensive, his footing disrupted as he struggled to keep up.
All of this happened within mere seconds.
In an instant, offense and defense reversed.
A comeback?
Was Roberta about to win?
Would these villains truly keep their promise?
Seeing the situation, Garcia's eyes widened.
Holy Mother Mary, please protect us! The boy prayed, though not entirely confident.
Tap tap! Thud thud!
The mad hound howled, swift as lightning.
Roberta's attacks remained fierce. She lifted her leg for another front kick, but Ivan, now adapting to the rhythm, caught the strike with both hands, preparing to throw her.
Yet Roberta's reflexes were faster still. Using the captured leg as a pivot, she bent her knee, leveraged the momentum, and sacrificed her balance to spin forward into a whirlwind kick.
Bam!
A heavy collision sounded, Ivan's face flushing red.
Roaring, he endured the blow, grabbed her leg firmly, lifted it, twisted his waist, and slammed her toward the ground in a brutal bomb throw.
Roberta held her breath. Even as she was flipped through the air, she had already bent her arms, elbows guarding her chest, palms facing downward.
Just before her head struck the ground, both hands slammed against the pavement.
Like steel whips striking stone, a metallic clang rang out.
Then—thump!
The maid crashed onto the ground, sliding several meters.
Cough cough! A metallic taste surged up her throat. Roberta's mind rang, darkness flooding her vision.
Even with her inhuman constitution and proper breakfall technique, the heavy slam had inflicted internal injuries.
Without pausing to breathe, she instinctively rolled away to create distance.
Ivan did not pursue immediately. Standing still, he said in a low voice, "You will lose."
"Shut up!" Roberta stopped, slamming her fist into the ground like a wounded beast roaring in fury.
As a former fighter of the Soviet-aligned Colombian Revolutionary Armed Forces, she had watched many of Ivan Dragunov's matches, including the so-called friendship bout in the United States at the end of 1985. He had said those exact words before killing former world champion Apollo Creed, and she remembered it vividly.
Back then, she and her comrades had cheered in front of the television.
But times had changed. Glory and defeat faded like smoke.
The corruption of her organization had made Roberta realize she was never a revolutionary soldier, merely a guard dog for the mafia and cocaine trade. She deserted, fled, and eventually became a maid in the Lovelace family that had taken her in.
Ivan had first won, then lost. In Moscow, he was defeated by Rocky Balboa—the friend of Apollo—becoming a stepping stone for a rival nation's legend before high-ranking officials of his own country. His reputation crumbled, and he gradually disappeared from the spotlight.
Now they met again. She was a maid of a crime family. He had become a hound serving capitalists.
How laughable. How ironic...
"Roberta!!" Garcia cried, his voice trembling.
"Young master..." Roberta murmured. She looked toward Garcia, pinned down by mercenaries, a fleeting gentleness appearing on her face before vanishing.
There was no time for sentimentality. Bracing herself on her elbows, she rose like an iron machine.
After roughly wiping the blood from her palms where the skin had been scraped by gravel, she stepped forward again.
Ivan simply clenched his fists expressionlessly, shifting sideways in small steps.
The next moment, Roberta stomped the ground with explosive force, muscles tightening like steel cables as she lunged forward in a lightning-fast leap.
A flying knee strike!
Her shoes scraped against the pavement with a harsh screech, leaving two dark streaks behind.
Ivan did not foolishly attempt to take the hit head-on. Twisting his waist and hips, he evaded.
"You're getting impatient."
As Roberta's momentum carried her too far and her strength waned midair, beginning her descent, Ivan dropped his shoulder and elbow like a battering ram charged with power and slammed into her.
Roberta crossed her arms to block, but she was sent flying. Her hundred-plus-pound body seemed light as a rag doll as she crashed hard into a roadside palm tree.
Boom! When she landed, blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth. She staggered, nearly falling.
Her arms trembled, her whole body numb with piercing pain. Her chest felt as though a massive stone pressed down upon it. Roberta knew that this time, she was likely going to lose.
Truly, she had never craved power so desperately.
She had been careless.
Before coming to Roanapur, she should have made thorough preparations. Instead, out of a desire to protect the young master, she had insisted on wearing this maid outfit. If she had been wearing military boots with reinforced steel layers, those kicks would never have been so easily endured by Ivan—
Dropping to one knee, Roberta glared bitterly at her foot. The ankle strap of the round-toed Mary Jane shoe had snapped, and the sole had begun to split along the edges.
That was the result of exerting too much force while kicking and stomping.
"If this is your limit, it only proves you've grown complacent over the years," Ivan said as he circled her. Glancing at the mafia corpses outside the bar, he added, "No wonder those trash managed to take the hostage from you."
Roberta pressed her lips together, teeth clenched, saying nothing.
He had struck a sore spot.
In recent years, she had indeed grown accustomed to comfort, busy playing the role of a fragile maid before young master Garcia. Training neglected, weapons put away, warhorses released to pasture.
"No need to continue. You've lost." Without waiting for her response, Ivan relaxed his fists. He had noticed the maid's predicament and immediately lost interest. The boss' order was to capture her alive. Continuing would only turn into a brutal fight risking crippling injuries or death, offering none of the exhilaration of a true battle.
"No! It's not over yet!"
Spitting blood, hatred burning fiercely in her eyes, Roberta charged toward Ivan again.
But after barely three meters, her ankle twisted. The Mary Jane shoe, already damaged from forceful movements, finally gave way, the sole tearing loose.
Staggering, she was forced to stop. First grinding her teeth in frustration, then letting out a bitter laugh, she finally kicked a nearby trash can violently—BANG!! The metal container warped instantly, flying dozens of meters away. Her resentment was unmistakable.
Mercenaries scattered along its path.
Even Ivan shifted aside.
Because there was garbage flying everywhere.
The can ultimately crashed into the burning Yellow Flag bar, triggering a chorus of Vietnamese curses from within.
Suddenly, the air fell silent.
Aside from the crackling of flames, only distant gunfire and explosions echoed intermittently.
BOOM!!
Several hundred meters away on the coastal highway, gunfire raged. A vehicle seemed to flip over and crash into a palm tree, its fuel tank igniting in a towering blaze.
That was Kevin from Group B intercepting reinforcements—likely Colombian mafia members called in by the group that had fought Roberta earlier. They had just missed Group C, who had flown off in a Black Hawk helicopter to raid the Colombian mafia's Roanapur headquarters.
"Roberta!" Garcia broke the silence first.
Crying, he rushed toward the battered maid.
This time, Li did not stop him.
"Stop fighting, Roberta! Since they're not the ones who kidnapped me and said they don't mean us harm, why can't we talk? If they really wanted to kill us, they could have done it anytime, right?" Garcia buried his head into the maid's dirty chest without hesitation, pounding against her as he spoke.
"I..." The ferocity on Roberta's face faded slightly, replaced by uncertainty.
Her body, face, and hands were covered in sweat, blood, and dust from the battle.
"Your kidnapping was my failure, young master. I must take responsibility for it."
She hesitated, glancing at the VAR mercenaries closing in around them, and lowered her voice.
"Although the VAR Company people do not carry the same malice as the cartel and even intervened to save you, their motives are likely impure. Most probably, they seek the rare earth resources as well."
"I cannot stand by and watch the Lovelace family's inheritance be taken by force. As a hound... as a guard dog, even if others call me a dog, risking my life to repay kindness is the only thing I can do."
"Don't call yourself a dog! Aren't you family, Roberta? Aren't we a family?! If there's a problem, we face it together!" Garcia said, choking up.
Ivan watched silently for a few seconds, accepting a canteen from his deputy. "Boss—"
Before he could finish, vrrrmmmm...
The roar of engines sounded from afar, growing louder.
Soon, a convoy stopped in front of the bar.
Click. Click.
Mercenaries opened doors and stepped out one after another.
Men and women alike, some fully armed, others in casual clothes. All looked seasoned and formidable.
After scanning the surroundings, a tall, athletic female mercenary with brown hair and blue eyes stepped forward and opened the door of the central car.
A foot in black business heels emerged, stepping onto the ground. A pale hand marked with burn scars rested against the car door.
Balalaika.
Then came Koko, wearing glossy loafers.
And finally, Vela.
The three women, each distinct in presence and temperament, stepped out of the vehicle.
Roberta sensed the shift in atmosphere immediately. Instinctively, she pulled Garcia behind her, her gaze sweeping over the trio before locking onto Vela. She bared her teeth like a mother wolf protecting her cub.
"First time meeting, yet you're so certain it's me?" Vela asked with a smile.
"Instinct." Roberta replied curtly, her entire body tense as if facing a monstrous predator.
It was clear the loyal maid was deeply displeased with Vela leveraging a favor into negotiation. Her tone was stiff.
Receiving such a cool response, Vela remained unbothered.
She leaned forward slightly, looking at Garcia, who peeked out cautiously.
"Hey boy, I heard you wanted to discuss cooperation with me?"
"Yes!" Though still somewhat afraid, Garcia stepped forward bravely after confirming Vela was not part of the group that had kidnapped him. He nodded solemnly. "What do you want? The rare earth mines?"
"Maybe. Maybe not," Vela replied with a faint smile. "Before we talk business, I need to confirm one thing."
"What is it?" Garcia swallowed nervously.
"Him." Vela pointed at Abrego, the Colombian mafia leader who had kidnapped Garcia, now tied up and pinned to the ground.
"If I hand him over to you, how would you deal with him?"