Inside the textile mill, panic reigned supreme!
The chaotic scramble reached a fever pitch, especially after the horrifying realization set in: Locke had just eliminated a dozen seasoned killers with a mere two bullets. The casual, almost lazy display of lethal efficiency shattered what was left of their morale.
"The Curve Bullet?"
"How is it possible? How could he know our secret technique?"
Deep within the facility, in an office where the flames of war had yet to reach, Sloan and his inner circle of senior operatives stared at each other in stunned silence. They were listening to the panicked reports coming from the "interns"—the initiates who were, in reality, nothing more than disposable cannon fodder.
The Curve Bullet was the Brotherhood's trump card, their divine inheritance. Without it, carving out a niche in the hyper-competitive world of international assassins would have been an impossible dream.
After all, everyone in this dark trade was out to make a buck. In a world of mercenaries, who did they think they were? "We are just killers for hire," some said, while the Brotherhood claimed to be "Instruments of Fate."
It was like a streetwalker suddenly claiming she only provided "artistic companionship" without the physical act—unless that worker has a powerful backer, she's going to be ostracized by the rest of the professionals.
The Brotherhood's "backer" was their unique ability to bend the trajectory of a bullet.
But now?
Sloan's face was a mask of fury as he stared at the wall of monitors. The screens were divided into a dozen feeds, all showing scenes of absolute carnage and confusion.
Gunfire echoed incessantly through the speakers. The volume suggested a massive, two-sided firefight, but the visual reality was far grimmer. Almost every second, another "fodder" dropped to the floor. Sometimes, two or three fell simultaneously.
If this wasn't the Curve Bullet, Sloan would gladly offer his own head on a platter.
But... where did he learn it? How did he steal it?
The question gnawed at Sloan's mind, but it was quickly becoming a secondary concern. The frontline was collapsing. The interns outside, seeing their numbers dwindle while their lone opponent remained unscathed, were retreating toward the inner sanctum.
The reason for their retreat was simple: the blast from the first Audi R8 had caused a partial structural collapse of the outer wall, effectively sealing the mill's main gate with tons of debris. They were trapped inside with a wolf.
At that moment...
*BOOM!*
*BOOM!*
*BOOM!*
"What was that?" Sloan shouted, feeling the vibration through the soles of his shoes.
Locke, standing in a corridor just outside the inner workshops, tossed aside a small remote detonator. He listened to the three successive explosions echoing from the outskirts of the property and let out a thin, cold smile. He stepped out from behind his cover and looked directly into a functioning security camera.
"And now," Locke whispered, "I close the door to beat the dogs."
He had promised to wipe out the textile mill. Locke had always placed a high premium on his word.
Sloan watched the feed—saw the discarded remote and the chilling "throat-slit" gesture Locke directed at the lens. The leader's face darkened even further. Three seconds after the last explosion, he realized the truth.
The escape tunnels were gone.
"Good... very good!" Sloan's voice trembled with a mix of rage and desperation. He let out a sharp, manic laugh. "I want to see how one man intends to end my Brotherhood!"
He pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved a custom handgun he hadn't touched in years. He turned to the remaining elite operatives in the room—the Exterminator and the others—and growled, "Kill him!"
They turned and left without a word, the rhythmic *clack-clack* of weapons being chambered sounding like a funeral march.
[Enemies Remaining: 69]
[Enemies Remaining: 68]
[Enemies Remaining: 65]
The moment the Brotherhood chose to retreat into the cramped, vertical confines of the building, they had signed their own death warrants. To Locke, they were now fish in a barrel.
'I love this game!'
The moment Locke stepped through the breach, the system notification for the mission [Destiny is Mine] had flared to life. At the start of the assault, the enemy count had been 196.
Now...
Kill one, and you're a criminal; kill ten thousand, and you're a hero!
*Bang!*
Locke's eyebrow twitched. He fired a single shot from his Silver Dancer, the bullet colliding mid-air with a curved projectile meant for his head. He dove behind a heavy loom, licking his lips.
'Even the scraps are being cleared out. You're joining the party a bit late, aren't you?' Locke thought, sensing the approach of the senior operatives.
He lunged out from cover.
His gaze instantly locked onto a killer on the second-floor gantry. The man was behind a metal pillar, but his ankle was slightly exposed.
*Bang!*
A flick of the wrist sent a gold-jacketed bullet on a sweeping arc. It struck with the force of a high-explosive shell. Following a guttural scream, the man's ankle was pulverized into a mess of bone and gristle.
"ARGH!" The Exterminator—the Brotherhood's elite trainer—hit the floor, howling in agony. "Fu—"
*Bang!*
Before he could finish the curse, a second bullet arrived. No wasted words, no hesitation. It bored through the center of his skull, sending his soul straight to Mephisto's waiting room.
[Enemies Remaining: 49]
Locke's smile widened as he entered full harvest mode.
By this point, the surviving interns were paralyzed with terror. Many had only been in the trade for a month or two; some hadn't even killed a chicken, let alone faced a supernatural force of nature like Peerless.
"Sloan!"
Locke caught a glimpse of the old leader scurrying across the third-floor balcony. He sent a bullet whistling past the man's ear and roared, "Wait for me! I'm coming for you!"
Sloan didn't answer. He simply ran faster.
...
Meanwhile: Brooklyn, New York
The Audi R8 with the LKNB plates was intercepted ten minutes after it was spotted.
However...
When Detective Kate Beckett arrived on the scene ahead of George, she threw open the trunk. Finding it empty, she looked at the driver—a portly man in filthy clothes who looked more like a freshly minted vagrant than a legendary assassin. A sudden, cold realization washed over her.
"George," she barked into her radio.
"I'm five minutes out, Kate."
"We've been played. This isn't the Sin Hunter."
Beckett walked to the rear of the R8, knelt down, and gave the license plate a sharp tug. With a *screech* of tearing metal, the plate came off. "The plates are counterfeit. Fakes. And Locke isn't here."
"What?" George, who was weaving through traffic, felt his heart skip a beat.
A second later, the realization hit him like a lightning strike.
It was a decoy.
*Screeeech!*
George slammed on the brakes, pulling a violent U-turn in the middle of the street. He jammed his thumb onto the radio button. "It's a decoy! All units, get to the textile mill! The Sin Hunter's real target is the mill!"
"...Copy that!" Beckett replied, stunned. She turned to the two officers pinning the vagrant to the pavement. "Take him back to the precinct."
The homeless man was terrified. "Officer, I didn't do nothing! A guy gave me a hundred bucks just to drive this car around! I don't know anything!"
His pleas fell on deaf ears. No one had time for him now.
"All units, attention!"
"Converge on the textile mill immediately!"
"The Sin Hunter is likely on-site!"
At that moment, the 911 dispatch center cut in with a priority alert: "Sir, we have multiple reports of large-scale gunfire and explosions at the textile mill!"
The hammer dropped.
George's pupils dilated. He buried the accelerator into the floorboard, the engine roaring as he raced toward the location.
'Damn it, Peerless.'
'This time, I'm putting you in a cage!'
***
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