★★Leon's POV★★



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As the three of us stood in the army storage room down in the basement of the our house, we are surrounded by an arsenal of weapons, Antonio picked up a Luger Pistol, examining it like he was about to write a dissertation.

"The Luger isn't bad, I guess," Antonio said, his voice contemplative, as he turned the gun over in his hands. "But the GLOCK 17? Now, that's solid—versatile, reliable, good grip—"

Damien groaned loudly, throwing his hands in the air. "Bro, it's not a wine tasting! Just pick a gun already!"

Antonio ignored him, holding up the Glock as if it were a trophy. "But you don't understand! The Glock has this perfect balance between—"

Damien cut him off, pointing at the shelf behind him. "Antonio, it's a gun. Not a soulmate. As long as it shoots bullets, does it matter?"

"Of course, it matters!" Antonio argued, setting the Luger down to pick up an M1911. "The right gun is like the right pair of shoes. It has to feel right! You wouldn't walk into a meeting wearing clown shoes, would you?"

Damien slapped his forehead dramatically. "This is a mission, not a fashion show, Antonio!"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, already feeling a headache coming on.

"And what's wrong with wanting something that feels comfortable?" Antonio shot back. "Maybe if you spent a little more time thinking about your tools instead of brute-forcing everything—"

Damien picked up a Desert Eagle, turning it over in his hands as if to make a point. "Brute force works just fine, thank you very much. Bigger gun. Bigger bang. Problem solved."

Antonio scoffed, shaking his head. "Typical. Overcompensating again, I see."

Damien's head whipped toward him, his eyes narrowing. "You wanna say that again, Pretty Boy? Overcompensating for what, exactly?"

Antonio grinned smugly, leaning against the table. "Oh, I think you know."

"Alright, that's it—" Damien set the Desert Eagle down with a thud and squared up to Antonio, who didn't back down.

Meanwhile, I stood off to the side, massaging my temples. The bickering was relentless.

"Would you both just pick a gun already?!" I snapped, glaring at the two of them. "I swear, listening to you two argue is worse than nails on a chalkboard."

They both paused, blinking at me like I'd interrupted their favorite soap opera.

Antonio huffed. "Fine. I'm taking the Glock."

Damien rolled his eyes. "Good. Then I'm taking the Desert Eagle. At least I'll look cool while getting the job done."

I grabbed a Beretta 92FS from the rack without hesitation and turned toward the door. "Great. Glad we've settled this. Now let's move before I use one of these guns on the both of you."

As I walked away, their voices followed me.

"Man, Leon's so grumpy today," Antonio muttered.

"Yeah, probably 'cause he picked the most boring gun in here," Damien added.

No, because I cant afford a mistake today.

He cant afford a mistake.

I didn't bother responding. I just sighed and kept walking, hoping they'd finally shut up once we were out in the field.

The cold morning air hit us as we stepped outside, where four black SUVs waited, their engines humming quietly. Guards in dark suits, armed with AKs strapped across their chests, shuffled to fit themselves into the vehicles, a picture of efficiency and muscle.

Damien, Antonio, and I slid into our own SUV parked near the driveway. Just as I turned the key in the ignition, Mama's voice rang out from the house.

"Attendez ! Attendez une minute ! S'il vous plaît ! (Wait! Wait just a minute! Please!)"

Her words made me pause, my foot hovering over the gas pedal. I looked up to see her rushing down the steps of the mansion's grand entrance, her house slippers smacking against the stone.

"Mama?" I muttered, confused as she reached the car window.

She leaned into the vehicle, out of breath but determined, and planted a kiss on my cheek. Then she circled to Damien and Antonio, giving them both the same motherly treatment.

"You boys come back to me in one piece," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Alive. All of you."

I couldn't help but give her a warm smile. "Bien sûr, maman, (Of course, Mama,)" I said softly, my chest tightening at the sight of her worried expression.

Damien, though, shook his head with a grin and pulled her into a tight hug. "Mama, you do this every time we go on a mission," he said, his tone light but affectionate. "And every time, we come back just fine."

She rested her hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing a smudge of dirt from his face. "I know," she replied, "but God forbid you don't. I'd never forgive myself."

Antonio, ever the joker, stepped in with his signature grin. "Don't worry, Mrs. Laurent. I'll keep these losers alive for you," he said, giving her a mock salute.

Mama smiled faintly at him but then turned her eyes to me. There was a sadness there, a look that made my heart twist.

Before I could say anything, my father's voice broke through the moment like a hammer.

"Chérie, (Honey,)" he said, stepping out of the house, his expression as calm and detached as ever, "They're going to be fine."

He stood tall, his hands tucked into his pockets, exuding his usual air of authority. His words were meant to reassure Mama, but there wasn't an ounce of warmth or genuine concern in his voice.

I scoffed under my breath, rolling my eyes.

Of course, he didn't care. Why would he?

"Well, what are you boys still doing here?" he added briskly, his tone clipped. "Go. You've got a job to do."

I turned my gaze back to Mama, ignoring him entirely. "Je t'aime, maman, (I love you, Mama,)" I said, giving her a soft smile before revving the engine.

She nodded, her hands clasped together, watching as we pulled away. The SUVs in front of us formed a tight convoy, their black frames cutting through the cold morning haze.

As I drove, I glanced in the rearview mirror, catching one last glimpse of her standing at the top of the driveway, her worried figure growing smaller and smaller.

Damien leaned back in his seat with a sigh. "You'd think after all these years, she'd realize we're bulletproof."

"Yeah, sure," Antonio replied with a chuckle. "Until the day we're not."

I didn't say anything, my grip tightening on the wheel as the convoy roared down the road. Mama's words echoed in my mind.

"Come back to me in one piece."

We would. We always did. But for some reason, today, her voice lingered longer than usual.

The drive was long, but we pushed the SUVs to their limits, speeding toward the destination. The drug cartel we were dealing with wasn't your run-of-the-mill operation. Ruthless killers, the lot of them, who would destroy anyone or anything that dared to cross their path. And now, they'd done the unthinkable: stolen from the French mafia.

I couldn't help but shake my head. "How stupid can they be?" I muttered under my breath. "Seriously, of all the people to mess with..."

The road stretched endlessly in front of us, but as we neared the outskirts of France, the convoy took a sharp turn off the paved highway. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels as we veered into the woods, the trees closing in around us. The ride turned rough, the SUVs bouncing and swaying over uneven ground. The sound of rocks being crushed under the tires filled the silence.

For a few minutes, we pressed on until the woods thinned, revealing a cluster of warehouses in the distance. The buildings looked abandoned, their walls crumbling with age, graffiti smeared across the surfaces. Some sections had collapsed entirely, leaving jagged gaps that gave the place an eerie, skeletal appearance.

We slowed down and parked far enough from the warehouses to stay hidden, just out of sight. The guards began unloading and gearing up in silence, their faces set with grim determination.

Inside our SUV, Damien was the first to speak. "Well, looks like we've found our rats' nest," he said, peering out the window.

I nodded, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out the earpieces we'd use to communicate. Before every mission, we made sure everyone was wired up for coordination.

"Alright, everyone, activate your earphones," I said, fitting mine securely into place.

I tapped the mic on my earpiece twice and said, "Check, check," testing the connection.

A chorus of voices crackled through in unison, their tone firm and disciplined: "Nous vous entendons haut et fort, patron. (We hear you loud and clear, boss.)"

The sound brought a small smirk to my face. I glanced at Damien and Antonio, who were already double-checking their weapons.

Antonio leaned back in his seat, spinning his Glock in his hand like it was a toy. "You know," he said, grinning, "for a bunch of ruthless killers, they sure picked the worst hiding spot. Couldn't scream 'trap' louder if they tried."

Damien snorted. "Doesn't matter. A trap works better when the prey doesn't show up packing heat and an army." He gestured to the loaded SUVs behind us.

I adjusted my earpiece and turned toward them. "Alright, enough chatter. Remember, these guys aren't amateurs. Stay sharp. No screw-ups."

"Yeah, yeah," Damien said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "Let's just get this over with."

With that, we stepped out of the SUV, the sound of our boots crunching against the gravel signaling the start of what promised to be a long, bloody day.

As we step out of the vehicle, the tension is palpable. The crew is gathered, fully geared, weapons ready, their faces grim with determination. They stand in neat lines, waiting for instructions.

I walk up to them and lower my voice, keeping it steady but firm. "Remember what we went over. Group A takes the west side. Group B goes north. The rest of you, follow the plan and cover the east. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir," they reply in unison, their voices cutting through the quiet night air like a knife.

I give them a sharp nod, signaling them to move. Without hesitation, the groups break off in different directions, their movements precise and disciplined.

Antonio, Damien, and I lead a small team to the east side, moving cautiously, our steps muffled against the uneven gravel. We jog in quick bursts, always careful not to make too much noise. The air is thick with anticipation, every shadow and rustle in the woods making the tension climb higher.

As we round the building, I catch sight of a back door. Its old, rusted surface is barely hanging on its hinges. One of my men steps forward, his rifle raised, ready to shoot the lock off.

But something catches my eye—a glint of metal scattered across the steps. The lock is already broken, its pieces shattered and lying in the dirt.

"Wait," I hiss, grabbing his arm just before he pulls the trigger. He freezes, the muzzle of his gun lowering slightly.

I take a step closer, scanning the area around us. My eyes land on the door. The lock isn't broken—it's been picked. The faint scratches around the keyhole give it away instantly.

"Lockpicked," I mutter, narrowing my eyes as I crouch down to confirm. The markings are clean but rushed. Someone was here, and recently.

I raise a hand, signaling everyone to hold position. My instincts are screaming at me. The faint smell of metal in the air, the scuff marks near the door—it's all wrong.

Damien, crouched slightly with his rifle at the ready, glances my way. "You think they're expecting us?"

I straighten, my fingers twitching at my side. "If they didn't before, they do now."

The men behind me shift uneasily, gripping their weapons tighter. I raise my hand again, signaling for silence.

"We proceed, but carefully," I whisper. "No sudden moves, and keep your eyes open. If this is a setup, we're not walking in blind."

With that, I motion for the group to follow, and we creep toward the door, the weight of what's inside pressing down on all of us.

The second we step inside, the silence is deafening. It's so quiet it feels like no one has been here in years. The cars are still parked outside, so they have to be somewhere in the building.

As we move cautiously down the hall, we check every room—each one as empty as the last. Where the hell is everyone? We keep heading deeper into the building, the emptiness stretching on endlessly. It feels like hours of walking, searching for any sign of life. But there's nothing. Not a single soul.

It's eerie, like something out of Sleepy Hollow.

"We've checked the whole building, brother," Damien says, his voice tinged with concern as he glances around. "There's no one here."

"There has to be someone—" I start, but my words are cut off by a sudden, piercing scream through the earpiece.

Everyone in our group groans, covering their ears. The screams are loud, frantic, and unmistakably from the other group.

"Mais qu'est-ce qui se passe ? (What the hell is going on?)" I mutter, my hand tightening around my weapon.

Without a second to lose, I tap my earpiece. The screaming continues, sharp and chaotic, filling the air like static.

"Que se passe-t-il?! (What's going on?!)" I bark, my voice sharp and demanding, cutting through the noise.

Damien quickly follows, his tone just as urgent. "Where are you guys?!"

Amid the chaos, one of the men manages to choke out, "N-north b-building!" His voice trembles, barely audible through the screams.

The moment we have a location, we break into a sprint, heading toward the north building. The pounding of our boots echoes in the stillness, mixing with the sound of our labored breaths. My heart thuds in my chest, each beat in sync with the rapid steps I take.

But as we get closer, the screaming suddenly stops.

The abrupt silence feels deafening, heavier than the noise that came before it. The quiet is unnatural, almost oppressive, and it wraps around us like a shroud as we approach the building.

I glance at Damien, his eyes narrowing, his body tense. Everyone slows their steps instinctively, the unease spreading like a ripple.

As we near the building, I spot a back door up ahead. I immediately raise my hand and curl my fist, signaling the group to halt.

We skid to a stop, catching our breaths in the cold, tense air. My mind races, but I force myself to stay focused. The silence only makes the situation more unsettling. We can't just barge in blindly. I won't risk walking into an ambush or putting my family in danger.

I glance back at Damien and the others, my voice low but firm. "Stay sharp. We don't know what's waiting for us in there."

They all give me a sharp nod, and I push the door open. A chill runs down my spine as the stale, damp air from inside greets us. My jaw tightens. Whoever is responsible for all of this, I swear I'll kill them for ruining my plan.

As we step into the building, the dim light barely illuminates the narrow corridors ahead. The darkness seems to swallow us whole, stretching and bending around each corner like it's alive. The silence clings to us, amplifying every cautious step we take.

We move lightly on our feet, the sound of our boots barely a whisper as we take sharp turns through the labyrinth of hallways. But the deeper we go, the more ominous it feels. The walls are stained—blood splattered like abstract artwork, smeared and dripping as if fresh.

Then we see them: lifeless bodies strewn across the floor. These weren't clean kills. The cartel members are left in grotesque positions, their faces frozen in terror or twisted in agony. Blood pools beneath them, dark and sticky, spreading like a macabre canvas on the cold, hard ground.

I glance at Damien and Antoino, and their faces mirror my own—grim, cold, and steeled with the same thought: whoever did this wasn't just efficient. They were a monster.

These weren't random kills; this was calculated slaughter, each body a piece of the puzzle that screamed of brutality. Whoever did this didn't care about getting in and out quickly. They wanted to send a message—a violent, unforgiving one.

I tap my earpiece, breaking the tense silence. "Quelles sont vos statistiques? (What are your stats?)" My voice is low, measured, though a flicker of unease creeps in.

There's no response at first, only the faint static of the channel.

Then, after a long pause, a voice crackles through the line.

"We got her, sir." The man's voice is ragged, out of breath, like he's barely holding it together. "She's unconscious. We managed to knock her out."

I stop dead in my tracks, narrowing my eyes. "Wait, what do you mean her?" I snap, my voice sharp with disbelief. "There was only one?"

There's silence on the other end for a moment before the man hesitantly confirms, "Y-yes, sir. Just one."

My mind races, and I feel Damien and Antoino's stares burning into me. "You're telling me that one person—a girl—did all of this?" I gesture to the blood-soaked walls and lifeless bodies surrounding us, my voice filled with both surprise and unease.

Antoino looks equally stunned. "Wait, a her?" He blinks, his jaw tightening as he processes the information. "It was a girl?" His tone is incredulous, almost offended by the idea. "You're telling me one girl managed to wipe out an entire cartel? What is she, some kind of superhuman?"

Damien shakes his head, his expression hard. "I don't know if we should be impressed or terrified," he mutters.

I grit my teeth, a mixture of frustration and unease washing over me. "Get her secured and don't let her out of your sight," I say into the earpiece. "Whoever she is, we need answers. And fast."

As we're about to move, the sudden blaring ring of my burner phone cuts through the tense silence. Everyone freezes mid-step, glancing at me. My stomach drops.

Who the hell is calling me right now? No one has this number except—oh shit.

My heart skips a beat, and my breathing stutters. I stop in my tracks, cursing silently as I reach into my pocket. Pulling out the small, cheap phone, I press it to my ear.

" Oui Monsieur, (Yes, sir,)" I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

There's no immediate reply, just the sound of his breathing filling the line. He's pissed—beyond pissed. The kind of pissed that makes your blood run cold.

Then his voice comes, low and measured, each word cutting like a blade. He doesn't waste time with anything unnecessary, and I know why. If he says anything more, he might just lose it entirely—and when my father loses it, it's like hell on earth.

"Leon," he says harshly, his tone sending a shiver down my spine, " Juste toi. Reviens. Maintenant. (Just you. Come back. Now.)"

The words are simple, but the weight behind them is suffocating.

I groan quietly, rolling my eyes, though I wouldn't dare let him hear that. My grip on the phone tightens as I glance at Damien and Antoino.

"Don't take your eyes off the girl," I command, my voice sharp and authoritative, masking the unease brewing inside me. "Make sure she's at headquarters. Do you hear me?"

Damien's brows knit together in worry, and Antoino tilts his head, his confusion evident. Before they can get a word out, I turn sharply and start heading toward the exit, my boots hitting the floor with purpose.

As I'm halfway out the door, Damien's voice crackles through the earpiece, desperate and steady. "What are your coordinates, Group B?"

I don't look back. My heart is thundering in my chest, each beat echoing louder than the last. The weight of my father's words presses down on me, heavy and unrelenting:

I can't afford a mistake, Leon.

His voice repeats in my head like a mantra, an ominous warning that I know better than to ignore.

Well, shit.

This just got a lot more complicated.



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Oh oh.

Its getting serioussssss

I wonder who this "girl" is????

*Do you guys like coffee?* im drinking an ice coffee rn heheh ._.

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡