The MILFs Club: Special Delivery for my Aunt

Chapter 250: Chapter 250: The Ambush

Alexander didn’t waste another second. He stepped down hard on the man’s bleeding shoulder, grinding the heel of his boot into the bullet wound.

The fake junkie let out a bloodcurdling shriek, his body convulsing on the floor as raw agony ripped through his nervous system. Alexander leaned down, grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him up just to smash his fist across the man’s jaw.

Crack!

Blood and saliva sprayed against the kitchen cabinets. Alexander slammed him back onto the floor, pinning him by the throat.

"Who sent you?!" asked Alexander, his voice an icy, guttural rasp. "Where is Jessica?!"

The man spit a mouthful of blood, his teeth covered in red, but he clamped his jaw shut, refusing to speak. Alexander’s eyes flared a dangerous, manic red. His patience, already frayed to its limit by the residual combat stimulants and the day’s stress, snapped. He brought the heavy barrel of his pistol down, slamming it against the side of the man’s head before burying the muzzle into his forehead.

"Fine," said Alexander, his breathing heavy, his finger tightening around the trigger. "Since you don’t want to talk, there is no reason for you to remain alive."

The man’s face was ruined, bleeding from his nose, mouth, and forehead. Alexander hadn’t shown a shred of mercy, treating him like a piece of meat meant to be broken.

"Why don’t you go ahead and let my man go, kid?" asked a cold, mocking voice from the hallway.

Alexander didn’t lower his weapon from the informant’s head, but he turned his gaze toward the kitchen doorway. A group of armed gangsters was filing into the small space, cutting off every exit. They wore dark street tactical gear, their hands resting on the grips of automatic pistols and submachine guns.

"Who the hell are you guys?" asked Alexander, his eyes narrowing as his tactical mind began scanning the room, calculating angles, distances, and bullet trajectories.

"First, drop the gun, boy," said the leader, stepping into the center of the room with a smug, arrogant grin as he leveled an Uzi directly at Alexander’s chest.

"Do you have any idea who the hell I am?" asked Alexander, his voice dropping into a calm tone as he slowly stood up, leaving his boot resting on the groaning informant’s chest. "This is a catastrophic mistake for you boys. Not one of you is walking out of this house alive. Do you even know whose family you’re messing with?"

The leader let out a harsh, mocking laugh, exchanging a dark look with the three men crowding the kitchen doorway.

"Of course I know," said the leader, his grin widening as his finger tightened on the trigger of his Uzi. "Marcus, right?"

Alexander’s chest tightened, a brutal shock hitting his system. His mind raced. They knew about Marcus.

"Better known around the organization as Reaper" said the gangster, leaning against the ruined kitchen counter with an arrogant posture. "The big, bad veteran. Did you think he was invisible, kid? Did you think nobody could trace his bloodline back to this miserable pile of bricks?"

Alexander stared at them, his eyes turning a dangerous, blood-red as the pieces began to lock into place. This wasn’t a random hit by some local street crew. These guys knew Marcus’s operational alias. They knew his rank, they knew his family, and despite knowing how terrifyingly lethal Reaper was, they were still hunting down his mother and tearing his old life apart.

"We’ve been watching this place for days," said one of the grunts in the back, his submachine gun raised level with Alexander’s head. "The old lady got tipped off and packed her shit in a panic yesterday, but she didn’t get far. And now, you just walked right into the slaughterhouse for her."

The air inside the cramped kitchen grew suffocatingly tense. Alexander could hear the steady *drip, drip* of blood from the man beneath his boot. He was surrounded, outgunned in a tight space with zero cover, facing an enemy that knew what kind of monster they were poking. The situation looked grim, but instead of fear, a wave of pure madness began to flood Alexander’s veins.

"So," said the leader, taking a slow step forward, the muzzle of his Uzi just a few feet from Alexander’s face. "Are you going to drop the piece, or do we turn this kitchen into your coffin?"

"If you know Reaper and you’re hunting him," said Alexander, a low, demonic rumble vibrating in his throat as his eyes locked into a manic, blood-red hue. "Then I hope you can entertain me for more than a few seconds."

Alexander’s lips peeled back into a sickening, twisted grin.

Before the leader could even process the words, Alexander’s hand blurred.

Bang!

The point-blank shot exploded the head of the fake junkie on the floor, painting the cabinets in a spray of crimson. In the exact same microsecond, Alexander hurled his body sideways, leaping over the kitchen counter just as a deafening hail of automatic gunfire tore through the air where he had been standing.

Splinters of wood and broken tile erupted everywhere as the gang members opened up with their submachine guns. Alexander hit the floor rolling.

Bang! Bang!

Two crisp shots echoed through the smoke, but to Alexander’s shock, the two grunts in the back ducked in perfect synchronization, diving behind the thick drywall of the hallway. These men weren’t clumsy street thugs; their movements were fluid, disciplined, and fast. They were trained operators.

The two men countered, poking the barrels of their weapons around the corner and letting loose a relentless barrage of lead that chewed through the kitchen counter, showering Alexander in sharp wooden splinters. Alexander snarled, pressed flat against the floor as bullet holes opened up just inches above his head.

"Who the fuck are you?!" screamed the leader, his arrogant composure shattered as he scrambled backward into the living room reloading his Uzi. "Who sent you?!

You came here looking for Reaper, didn’t you?! How do you know you haven’t already fucking found him?!" replied Alex.