The club's interior was a cavern of shadows and pulsing red lights, the bass of electronic music vibrating through the floor. The main floor was packed with killers—men and women with cold eyes and hidden blades, their drinks untouched as they registered the intruders. Silence fell, heavy and oppressive, as every gaze locked onto Alex, Elena, and Sophia.
Elena took the left flank, her dagger a blur as she moved. A wiry man lunged at her with a switchblade, but she sidestepped, slicing his wrist to disarm him. Her second strike found his heart, and he dropped without a sound. Another charged—a woman with a garrote wire. Elena ducked under the wire, grabbed the woman's arm, and twisted, snapping it at the elbow. A quick stab to the throat ended the threat. Her movements were surgical, each motion precise, her auburn hair swinging like a pendulum as she carved through her foes.
Sophia, on the right, was chaos incarnate. Her twin blades danced in tandem, cutting through two attackers at once—one's throat opened, the other's chest pierced. A third came at her with a baton, but she spun low, slicing his Achilles tendons. As he fell, she drove both blades into his back, her blonde hair streaked with blood. "Amateurs," she muttered, kicking a body aside.
But it was Alex who stole the room's focus. He strode forward, katana in one hand, his tall frame radiating menace. A gunman fired from the bar, but Alex rolled, the bullet grazing his shoulder. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, disarming the man with a flick of his blade and seizing the pistol. In one fluid motion, he fired, dropping two more attackers across the room. Another came at him with a machete; Alex parried, took the weapon, and used it to cleave through the man's arm. The machete became an extension of his will, slashing through a second opponent's chest.
As weapons littered the floor, Alex discarded the machete, his hands becoming his deadliest tools. His fighting style shifted—Muay Thai's brutal efficiency mixed with kickboxing's precision. A hulking assassin swung a crowbar; Alex blocked with his forearm, drove a knee into the man's gut, and followed with an elbow to the temple, dropping him cold. Another charged; Alex's roundhouse kick snapped the man's neck with a sickening crunch. His movements were relentless, almost mechanical, his handsome face devoid of emotion as he dismantled his enemies one by one.
Elena and Sophia paused, catching their breath, their eyes wide as they watched Alex. The last attacker—a wiry man with a stiletto—lunged. Alex caught his wrist, twisted until it snapped, and drove his fist into the man's throat. The body hit the floor, and the club was silent save for the blaring alarms.
High above, in a control room, Mara and Lila Sable watched the carnage unfold on security feeds. Jericho stood behind them, his scarred face unreadable, his long hair tied back as he lit another cigarette.
"He's a machine," Mara said, her gray eyes narrowing at Alex's image. "Those moves—Muay Thai, kickboxing, and something else. He's no ordinary husband."
Lila smirked, twirling a knife. "He's a prize. We need him alive."
Jericho exhaled smoke, his voice low. "Capture him. He's something special. The Viper's dangerous, but this man… he's an enigma."
The twins nodded, their smiles predatory as they headed for the door. Jericho pulled out a burner phone, dialing a contact. "Dig into the husband's background. Name's Alex Harlan. I want everything—where he trained, who he was before. He's not what he seems."