"Mr. Caine… we've arrived at the airport."
The convoy pulled into the parking structure.
Engines cut.
The passenger-side bodyguard gave a quick reminder as he stepped out.
From three SUVs, ten killers emerged.
None drew their guns—
but each hand was already buried in their jackets, gripping pistols with safeties off.
Caine climbed out,
his daughter still half-asleep in his arms.
He draped a bulletproof suit jacket over her,
then strode toward the VIP boarding passage.
The ten killers moved with him,
two ahead, two behind,
shielding Caine and his child in the center.
Six more formed a rotating circle, eyes sweeping the crowd.
This stretch through the terminal—
the most dangerous of all.
Duggan had already screwed a silencer onto his pistol.
Blending with the crowd,
he was ready to quietly thin out the wolves.
And he wasn't alone.
Among the milling travelers were more of the killers who had helped Caine escape the Continental.
Pfft! Pfft!
The muffled cough of a suppressed pistol.
Duggan brushed past a man reaching for a bag,
pinned his hand—
two rounds to the chest,
and kept walking.
Only after Duggan had taken three more steps did the man crumple,
causing a ripple of unease in the crowd.
Elsewhere, several assassins closed in on Caine's path.
But just as they believed they'd reached striking distance—
Two "bystanders" stepped in, one on each side.
A hand over each mouth.
They dragged the killers into a shadowed bench corner.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
The suppressed shots were quick and clean.
When it was over, the bodies slumped together as though napping—
only the slow seep of blood betraying the truth.
Step by step, with danger around every corner,
Caine and his escort finally made it through the VIP channel.
The private jet awaited.
Caine carried his daughter into the rear lounge,
checked every corner inside and out.
Only when satisfied did he gently lay her down and return to the cabin.
He chose a seat close to the lounge door.
His eyes met Duggan's and the ten killers'.
"Thank you," Caine said sincerely.
"Mr. Caine, no thanks needed. These are Mr. Alex's orders," Duggan replied flatly.
The engines roared.
The jet rolled down the runway, lifting into the sky.
For the first time, shoulders eased, breaths released.
Two private attendants entered with champagne,
golden bubbles fizzing in tall glasses.
But before the drinks touched the table,
Caine and Duggan moved as one.
Caine's sword-cane flashed—
piercing straight through the chest of one attendant.
He ripped the blade free without hesitation.
Duggan seized the other attendant's wrist,
yanking off a gold bracelet.
A razor-thin filament snapped free.
He looped it fast around her throat—
tightened until her own weapon strangled her.
Caine peered out the window.
The lights of Paris International Airport still lingered below.
He sighed.
"Looks like… even the pilot isn't safe."
Rising, cane in hand, he headed for the cockpit.
Seconds later—
the muffled grunts of a struggle.
Duggan gestured for two killers to drag the attendants' corpses into the galley.
Then he stepped into the cockpit himself.
The pilot's face was swollen,
hands stabbed clean through.
Caine's sword rested at his throat.
The pilot, trembling with pain, steadied the controls, forcing the plane back on course.
Caine glanced at Duggan.
"You know how to fly?"
"A little," Duggan said bluntly.
"Fine." Caine exhaled.
Then, with grim humor, he muttered to the battered pilot:
"Congratulations, Captain. You just won yourself a chance to live."
Meanwhile. New York.
Chaos engulfed the underworld.
The largest of the Night Demon's affiliated crews—
the Viggo Syndicate, led by Viggo Tarasov—
had just stabbed the Vietnamese gang in the back.
At 9 p.m.,
on Vietnamese turf—
bars, nightclubs, brothels, underground casinos,
all at their busiest.
Without warning,
two hundred Tarasov foot soldiers stormed in.
Pistols blazing.
Customers fled screaming,
while Vietnamese soldiers dropped under the hail of bullets.
And that was just in the lower Manhattan sector.
In the upper district, Vietnamese strongholds were struck simultaneously—
not just by Tarasov's men,
but also by Giselle Crew, Deli Gang, and the ruthless Hadro Organization.
Hit from both flanks,
the Vietnamese gang reeled, unprepared for the betrayal.
In a single night,
the war consumed all three Manhattan districts—
north, central, and south.
Viggo hadn't publicly declared rebellion against the Night Demon.
But tonight's bloodshed spoke louder than words.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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