Wet sand clung to Brisky's sneakers. The waves hissed in the distance, their sound an undercurrent to the nearing scuff of Ken's men. Their shadows stretched long beneath the moonlight, like specters dancing toward death.
Brisky stood at the center of the beach. His eyes tracked every minute detail. The twin pistols in his hands were cold, eager to sing.
Bang! Bang!
Two rounds, two skulls burst open. Gore exploded, mixing sickeningly with the black sand. The bodies slumped. The sand swallowed them like temporary graves.
The enemies' shouts tore through the night. Brisky's name was spat out, a blend of fury and terror. "Beach Devil," one whispered, moments before his breath caught forever.
A machete arced, steel flashing under the moon. Brisky tilted his body—whoosh—then smashed the attacker's wrist with the butt of his pistol.
Crack!
Bone fractured. The man shrieked, but Brisky was already moving, driving a round into his chin. Bang! Blood washed the tide, crimson beneath the gray light.
A sashimi knife slashed from the side, slicing his shoulder. Warm blood flowed, yet Brisky didn't flinch. His eyes narrowed, cold as the midnight sea.
He seized the attacker's forearm, twisting until the knife clattered to the sand. With a single motion, he kicked the blade toward another enemy—zip—sinking it into the thigh. The man crumpled, roaring.
Brisky stepped back, using a nearby corpse as a shield. Crash! Two more knives slammed into the dead flesh.
He fired through the gap in the corpse's shoulder—Bang! Bang!—two more enemies dropped, rounds lodged precisely in their foreheads.
His movement was seamless, like water flowing around rock. Every step measured, every shot fatal.
Clack!
His right pistol was empty. Brisky hurled it at the nearest enemy's face—Krak!—a broken nose.
He snatched the dropped sashimi knife from Ken's man and drove the tip into the opponent's throat. Viscous blood spouted. The man choked, falling into the grit.
Brisky grabbed a fresh magazine from the dead man's jacket pocket, reloading his left pistol in a fluid second. Clack! Cool, mechanical.
The enemies still came, wave after wave, but Brisky was the storm. He slid low, wet sand slick beneath his knees, firing at their legs. Bang! Bang!
Screams of agony broke. Bodies tumbled like puppets with cut strings.
He surged up, kicking a stray machete, sending it spinning into another enemy's neck. Splat! Blood sprayed, painting a red arc in the night air.
His breath ragged, his heart hammering. His face smeared with blood. The enemies' screams and curses were aimed at him as he brushed his long hair back with a bloody hand.
In a swift motion, he kicked sand toward the group of men, creating a dust haze that momentarily blinded Ken's crew. Capitalizing on the chaos—
He moved like a hurricane—striking, kicking, shooting, evading. Every movement was brutal, precise, and relentlessly final.
***
In the distance, Ken gritted his teeth, his face tight,the veins in his neck bulging with pure rage. He fired up his motorcycle—VROOM—the engine's roar sliced through the symphony of death on the beach.
Sand grated beneath the wheels. His men shrieked and scattered, clearing a path for their boss. Brisky gave a fleeting glance, his eyes cold as the midnight sea. One of Ken's men was prone in the sand, groaning, blood seeping from his thigh.
"Die, Brisky!" Ken roared. His voice, though loud, seemed swallowed by the deafening engine tearing toward him.
Brisky moved. His foot stomped down on the groaning man's back. With a powerful push, he launched himself. His body flew ten feet through the air, like a shadow detached from the darkness.
Ken's eyes widened, his face momentarily bleached. Brisky tucked his knee, bracing for the flying strike.
KRAAKK!
His knee slammed into Ken's face. Nasal bone fractured. Blood sprayed like a red mist beneath the moonlight.
Ken was thrown backward, his body tumbling into the sand. His motorcycle sped out of control, barreling into the cluster of his own men like a bowling ball. Thud! Thud!
Screams of agony broke. The bike's engine shrieked before dying.
Brisky landed, rolled on the wet sand, then sprang up in one seamless motion. Bang!
The pistol in his hand spoke. A round pierced the nearest enemy's shoulder, opening a vital gap.
He sprinted toward Ken's stalled motorcycle, chunks of sand and gore clinging to its tires. With one decisive kick, he swung onto the bike—Vroom, Vroom—the engine roared back to life in his hands.
He sped away. The night wind carried the scent of salt and blood.
Behind him, the desperate screams of Ken and his remaining men faded, swallowed by the tide. Brisky didn't look back.
His eyes were sharp, narrowed through the darkness. Only one thought in his mind: It's not over.
The beach was silent now. Leaving only the corpses, the blood-soaked sand, and the shadow of Brisky, disappearing into the horizon—like a ghost returning to hell.
***
Hundreads of Miles from the beach … .
An office, hidden deep in the shadows, was lit by a single, flickering red neon sign in the corner.
Howard Tate, a former marine with a rigid posture and eyes as sharp as a hawk's, sat behind a steel desk. The name tag on his chest read: "Chief Director," Special Operations Bureau.
The wall clock ticked softly: 11:45 PM.
He let out a slow breath. His fingers carefully opened the file, as if cracking open a secret vault.
_
[SUSPECT: Brisky Corwin
AGE: Estimated 30s
HEIGHT: 6'0" (183 cm)
PHYSICAL TRAITS: Long black hair, brown eyes, tanned skin
STATUS: International criminal. Trafficking new narcotics, assassination of heads of state, espionage, sensitive data hacking. Mastermind of political unrest and cross-continental financial crime.
WARNING: Code Black—Extremely dangerous.]
_
"Brisky Corwin," Howard murmured, his voice low, as if speaking to a phantom.
"Two years ago in Thailand, alongside Doctor Ludwig—that mad scientist."
His eyes narrowed, tracing the final line of the file: Code Black.
The information was late. Too late.
What were the higher-ups hiding? What secret had this man stolen from a nation secured like a fortress?
His fingers tapped the desk, a slow rhythm that echoed in the silent room.
Something was wrong. Ludwig. Brisky. Code Black. His mind spun, smelling conspiracy beneath the ink and paper.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A rap on the door broke the silence. "Enter," Howard commanded, his marine cadence unwavering.
Rita stepped in, the click of her heels echoing on the concrete floor. Her brown hair was neatly tied back, her blue eyes cold as ice. A thin sheen of sweat covered her temples.
"Eric called," she stated, her voice sharp, without preamble. "Brisky Corwin detected. Fleeing on a black Harley Sportster."
Howard nodded, his eyes never leaving the file.
"Prep the chopper. Aerial surveillance. Release the intel to the news stations—we need eyes on the ground. And contact local law enforcement. Box him in."
His voice was cold, like a whetted blade. "Special forces, Rita. Now."
Rita gave a single nod, then spun, her fast footsteps disappearing behind the door.
Howard looked up, toward the shadows on the ceiling. "Brisky Corwin," he whispered, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smile, like a wolf catching the scent of blood. "What secret are you carrying?"
Outside, the night swallowed the city, the neon lights flickering like the heartbeat of a conspiracy.
***
Beneath the skyscrapers, the city's neon lights pulsed like glowing blood.
The silent asphalt was broken by a scream—VROOM, VROOM—a black Harley Sportster weaving wildly between cars. Its speed kissed 125 mph.
The night wind whipped Brisky Corwin's long hair. The scent of blood and asphalt stung his nose. His brown eyes, sharp and unwavering, cut through the darkness like a knife.
Above, Vrrrrrr—a helicopter circled, its rotor blades slicing the air.
"Suspect detected! Changing course!" the pilot shouted over the radio.
Fsshh! A spotlight swept the night, its beam catching Brisky's shadow on the pavement.
"Bastards," he sneered, the cynical sound lost in the engine's roar. He twisted the throttle; the bike screamed faster, leaving a trail of smoke between the buildings.
The street corner ahead flared red and blue—police sirens wailed. Patrol cars fishtailed, their tires screeching on the asphalt.
"Suspect on Abbey Road!" an officer reported over the radio, their voice swallowed by the chaos.
From the sidewalk, a reporter yelled into a microphone, "Brisky Corwin, international fugitive, is being pursued! Lock your doors!"
Brisky glanced back. Four police cars chased him, their strobes dancing on the brick walls.
"Night's still young," he muttered, a grim smile on his lips.
"Pull over, Brisky Corwin!" a police speaker blared.
"Pigs," he spat, raising his pistol.
Bang! A round struck the lead car's tire—Pop!—the car swerved, smashing into its partner. CRUNCH! CRUNCH! Metal shrieked, the asphalt slicked with debris.
The helicopter spotlight zeroed in on him, a harsh, unwavering beam. Two police cruisers blockaded the street ahead, their red and blue lights blinding.
Brisky's mind raced, his eyes catching the line of parked cars on the side.
With a hard kick, the bike's front wheel lifted. He sped up, the tire slamming onto a car roof—Crash!—glass shattered, metal crumpled.
Pedestrians shrieked, police officers cursed, but Brisky had already shot past, his shadow a blur beneath the neon.
A black SUV peeled out of an alley, its window rolling down. Rat-a-tat! M4 fire sliced the air, rounds grazing his bike's tire—SKREEECH!
Brisky snarled, his eyes burning. Bang! Bang! Two rounds from his pistol punched through the SUV's windshield; the driver slumped. The vehicle hydroplaned, slamming into the guardrail with a deafening impact.
The street was pure anarchy now—sirens, gunfire, screams. Brisky weaved, dodged, and shot, every move a dance in the middle of hell.
Yet, the police blockade was tightening. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his wounds pulsed. Desperation began to crawl in…
***
Brisky's pistol clicked empty, the magazine spent. His eyes narrowed, his mind racing, scanning left and right like a trapped tiger.
Above, the helicopter spotlight carved through the night—FSSHHH!—his shadow stark on the dry asphalt.
Ahead, a luxury apartment tower loomed, its glass doors gleaming amidst the wildly flickering city neon. He slammed the throttle of his black Harley Sportster; the engine howled like a starved beast, rocketing toward the entrance.
The security guard in front gaped, leaping aside, his uniform whipped by the wind.
SHATTER! CRASH!
The lobby glass exploded into a thousand shards, pieces slashing Brisky's arm. Fresh blood dripped onto his tattered, gore-stained tank top.
Residents in the lobby shrieked, scrambling in panic, high heels and suitcases clattering on the slick marble floor.
Brisky brandished his empty pistol, his gaze feral like a wolf's, fueling the frantic screams.
"Get out!" he roared, his voice echoing, rattling the expensive lobby.
With a quick motion, he leaped off the bike, his feet landing on the smooth, polished marble. The stench of gasoline and sweat mixed on his skin.
He wrenched open the bike's gas cap; the clear liquid spilled out, forming a gleaming puddle on the pristine white floor. The gasoline fumes were acrid, filling the air.
He ripped his tank top. The worn fabric tore easily in his injured hands. Flick. A lighter ignited, a small flame dancing at his fingertips.
He tossed the burning cloth onto the gasoline puddle—WHOOSH!—Fire devoured the floor, rapidly crawling toward a nearby leather sofa.
Black smoke billowed. Fire alarms screamed. Sprinklers blasted water like a torrential downpour.
Panic reigned. Residents stampeded toward the exit, crashing into one another. Their screams merged with the approaching police sirens.
Brisky ran, kicking open doors in the lobby—security rooms, service corridors, anything that offered an escape. His gaze swept wildly, searching for a gap in the center of the hell he had created.
The sprinkler water soaked his long black hair. Blood and sweat mingled on his tanned skin, but he kept moving, like a devil refusing to be caged.
Outside, the helicopter pilot reported, his voice shaking over the radio: "Fire in the lobby! Suspect still inside!"
Police cruisers choked the street. Red-and-blue strobes danced on the towering walls, sirens screaming deafeningly.
Brisky was cornered. The smoke thickened.
Armed officers stormed the broken entrance, rifles poised. From the roof, the helicopter spotlight swept the lobby, catching the smoke and the wild, dancing flames.
He knew. This chase wasn't over.