Chapter 251: Chapter 251: Combat inside the house
The concrete floor beneath Alexander vibrated as the relentless hail of submachine-gun fire chewed through the kitchen island. These guys weren’t giving him an inch to breathe. The air was thick with the acrid stench of cordite, pulverized drywall, and fresh copper.
Alexander realized he couldn’t stay pinned down. If he let them suppress him any longer, they would flank the counter and finish him off.
"Fucking try me!" roared Alexander, his berserker instincts taking the wheel.
Instead of retreating, he launched himself over the ruined counter right into the teeth of the gunfire. A bullet grazed his ribcage, tearing his shirt, but the rush of adrenaline washed away the pain. Before the nearest operator could adjust his aim, Alexander slammed into him like a freight train, the sheer momentum crashing both of them into the hallway wall.
Crack!
The man’s ribs shattered under Alexander’s weight. Without breaking his stride, Alexander gripped the man’s weapon hand, twisting it until the wrist snapped, forcing the submachine gun to drop. In a fluid, brutal motion, Alexander rammed the barrel of his tactical pistol right under the man’s chin and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The second grunt reacted, dropping his empty rifle and drawing a combat knife, lunging with a lethal tactical thrust aimed directly at Alexander’s throat. Alexander snapped his head back, the blade slicing a thin red line across his jaw. Alexander dropped his gun, parrying the next strike with his forearm, and locked the man in a tight close-quarters clinch.
The operator was strong, fast, and clearly trained in martial arts, trying to trip Alexander’s legs. But Alexander’s raw, enhanced strength was simply overwhelming. With a guttural growl, Alexander grabbed the man by his tactical vest, hoisted him off his feet, and slammed him spine-first against the heavy wooden doorframe.
Crunch!
The man gasped, paralyzed as his vertebrae fractured. Alexander didn’t let him drop; he wrapped his massive hands around the operator’s head and twisted it with a sharp, sickening jerk.
Two down.
Alexander scooped his pistol back up from the floor, spinning around just as the third grunt stepped into the hallway, raising a shotgun. Alexander didn’t hesitate. He fired three rapid shots straight into the man’s chest. The heavy rounds tore through his body armor, throwing him backward onto the living room rug where he lay twitching in a pool of dark blood.
The deafening roar of gunfire suddenly died down, replaced by the ragged, heavy breathing of Alexander and the panicked, scrambling sounds of the leader.
"You’re a monster... you’re one of them!" screamed the leader, his voice cracking with pure terror as he looked at his elite squad wiped out in less than two minutes.
The leader didn’t even attempt to fire his Uzi again. He threw the weapon at Alexander’s face to distract him, turned on his heel, and desperately crashed right through the front living room window, glass shattering everywhere as he tumbled onto the overgrown front porch.
"Get back here!" barked Alexander, knocking the thrown weapon aside.
Ignoring the sharp glass shards, Alexander vaulted straight through the broken window frame, landing heavily on the porch just in time to see the bleeding, panicked leader scrambling down the concrete steps, desperately running toward a dark sedan parked under the dim streetlights.
The leader scrambled into the dark sedan, his hands shaking so he could barely shove the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, and the car screeched away from the curb just as Alexander hit the pavement.
Alexander didn’t bother chasing him on foot. He sprinted straight back to his silver Tahoe, tore the door open, and threw himself into the driver’s seat. He slammed the accelerator to the floor, the heavy engine roaring like a caged beast as the massive truck lunged forward, its tires smoking against the asphalt.
The dark sedan was frantically twisting through the narrow, unlit streets of the ruined neighborhood, its tail lights fishtailing around every corner. But Alexander was relentless. The heavy Tahoe closed the gap in a matter of seconds, cutting through the shadows like a silver bullet.
"You think you can run from me?!" laughed Alexander, a wild, manic grin tearing across his face as he locked his gaze onto the bumper ahead.
He didn’t slow down for the upcoming intersection. Alexander gripped the steering wheel tight and rammed the front steel guard of the Tahoe directly into the back corner of the sedan—a perfect, high-speed PIT maneuver.
CRASH!
The sedan spun out of control, its tires screeching as it whipped sideways across the asphalt, helpless. The momentum carried the vehicle straight off the road, slamming it into the brick facade of an abandoned commercial building. The impact erupted in a shower of sparks, shattered glass, and twisted metal, collapsing a section of the brick wall right onto the crumpled hood.
Alexander slammed on his brakes, bringing the Tahoe to a smooth stop just a few feet away. He pushed the door open, stepped down onto the pavement, and slowly walked toward the wreckage, his tactical pistol resting casually by his side.
The leader was trapped inside, the deflated airbag covered in blood. He groaned in agony, his legs pinned beneath the crushed dashboard as he desperately tried to push the jammed driver’s side door open.
Alexander reached down, grabbed the bent metal frame of the door, and ripped it off its hinges with a single, violent jerk, tossing it onto the street. He leaned down, staring into the terrified, bleeding face of the gangster.
"And you idiots actually thought you were ready to face Reaper?" said Alexander, a low, mocking chuckle escaping his lips as he shook his head in pure amusement. "You really are just a pathetic bunch of fucking amateurs. If this is the best you guys can bring to a fight, you never stood a chance."
The leader looked up at Alexander through a mask of blood and sweat, his vision blurring as his consciousness rapidly began to slip away.
"You... you have no idea what you’ve just stepped into," muttered the man, a wet, choking cough escaping his lips as he offered one final, trembling sneer. "Reaper is already a dead man walking... and now, you’re going right down to hell with him."
Before the last word could fully leave his mouth, his head rolled heavily to the side, his eyes closing as he blacked out from the pain and blood loss.
Alexander reached inside the crushed cabin, grabbing the unconscious leader by the collar of his tactical vest and dragging him out through the broken frame. The man’s limp body hit the asphalt with a heavy thud.
"Yeah, sure, I’ve heard that exact same line so many times that I’m sick of it," said Alexander, staring down at the bleeding face with pure disgust. "I never know anything. I’m never high enough level. I’m never enough for anyone. To hell with all of you."
He took a deep breath, forcing his raging adrenaline to settle just enough to think clearly. He pulled his heavily encrypted smartphone from his pocket and immediately speed-dialed Marcus. The call connected.
"Marcus, I found them," said Alexander, his voice tight and dripping with cold fury. "They knew who you were. They explicitly used the name Reaper. I managed to wipe out his squad inside the old house, and I just ran the leader’s car into a wall. I have him right here, but he’s unconscious. He’s too far gone for me to start torturing him for information right now."
On the other end of the line, the silence lasted for only a fraction of a second before Marcus’s voice came through, deadly and unyielding.
"Bring him to the docks," said Marcus, his tone carrying a sharp, dangerous edge. "To that specific place. Right now."
Even though they were both using highly modified, secure military-grade burners, Marcus wasn’t taking a unnecessary risk, avoiding pronouncing the actual name of the shipyard over the airwaves. But Alexander didn’t need him to spell it out. He understood exactly which location his brother was talking about.
"I’m on my way," said Alexander.
He hung up, grabbed the unconscious gangster by the ankles, and hauled him toward the back of the Tahoe, throwing him into the trunk like a sack of trash before slamming the heavy tailgate shut.
Alexander drove the Tahoe through the rusted perimeter gates of the shipyard, the heavy tires crunching softly against the gravel. The massive warehouse doors smoothly slid open just enough to let his truck pass, closing the moment he pulled inside the dim, industrial interior.
Marcus was already standing there under the harsh overhead work lights, surrounded by his advanced chemical equipment and the silent, imposing metallic frames of his personal workshop. His face was an mask of cold steel.
"When I went to your mother’s old house to look for clues, a hit squad was already waiting inside," said Alexander, stepping out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door behind him. "They knew exactly who you were, Marcus. They explicitly used your code name, Reaper. My guess is they’re actively hunting her down, or they already captured her and left those men behind to use the property as an ambush site. Either way, things are messy."
Marcus didn’t flinch, but the muscles along his jaw tightened significantly.
Alexander walked to the back of the Tahoe, popped the heavy tailgate open, and dragged the limp, bleeding body of the gang leader out of the trunk, letting him hit the concrete floor with a dull thud.
"He’s still alive, but he blacked out after I smashed his car into a brick wall," said Alexander, kicking the unconscious man’s ribs to roll him over.
Marcus walked over, standing directly over the ruined face of the operative. A dark calm smile spread across his lips.
"You did good bringing him here," said Marcus, his voice dropping into a low, predatory purr. "Come on. Grab his arms and let’s haul him to the back room. I’m going to teach you a few interrogation techniques, and then I’ll show you something truly fun."
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