Wars In Love City

Chapter 5

Inside, the Crown Princess Sofia and her little girl, Amalia, sat on the floor with duct tape over their wrists, ropes around their waists—ropes attached to bricks of C4 lining the walls.

A man stood behind them. Thin, sharp like a blade, hair slicked back, eyes black as tar. His pistol pressed against Sofia’s temple. Another gun was held loosely near the girl.

“Not one more step,” the man hissed.

Kyle froze.

“Let her go,” Kyle said, voice steady.

“You kill fifteen of my men,” the kingpin growled, “and you want… negotiation?”

“They shot first.”

“And you dodged bullets, leapt from boats, climbed like a devil.” The man’s lip curled. “What are you?”

“Persistent.”

The kingpin barked a laugh. “You Americans. Always a joke before death.”

“You had options,” Kyle said. “You chose the princess and the kid. That’s when you signed your own exit papers.”

“Enough.” The man pressed the gun harder. “These explosives detonate the moment I release my thumb. So you will lay down your weapons. Or we all die.”

Kyle lifted both hands slowly. “Okay. But you’re missing something.”

“Oh?” the man sneered. “And what is that?”

Kyle tapped his forehead. A tiny gesture, almost lazy. Relaxed. Dangerous.

“I don’t bluff.”

Then he threw the Uzi.

Not to hit the kingpin — that would have been insane — but at the light fixture above him.

The metal casing hit the bulb with a c***k, showering sparks into the kingpin's eyes. He flinched. Only for a second.

But a second was enough.

Kyle dove sideways, rolled, snatched a fallen knife from the body of a guard he’d killed earlier outside the cabin, and flicked it with a snap of his wrist.

It buried into the kingpin’s forearm.

He screamed, firing wildly. The princess ducked. The girl cried out.

The man stumbled back, dropping the gun near the child in agony — but his thumb was still on the detonator.

Kyle surged forward, slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, and grabbed his wrist.

“Let go,” the kingpin spat.

“No.”

They struggled, the detonator between them, the C4 humming softly like a sleeping monster waiting to wake.

Kyle twisted the man’s wrist until bone cracked.

The kingpin shrieked and dropped the remote.

Kyle kicked it across the floor, sliding it under a cabinet.

The kingpin pulled a hidden blade and slashed Kyle’s cheek. Kyle didn’t react. He simply wrapped an arm around the man’s neck and squeezed.

“You strapped a five-year-old to explosives,” Kyle said, voice low. “You don’t get a merciful death.”

The kingpin clawed at Kyle’s arms, gasping, choking. Kyle held on until the body went limp.

He let it drop.

Kyle knelt, cut the ropes off the princess and her daughter, and inspected the C4.

“It’s stable,” he said. “Trigger’s disabled.”

He didn’t add that it was a miracle the firefight hadn’t set it off.

The princess sobbed quietly. Her daughter clung to Kyle’s neck as he carried her.

“You’re safe now,” he told them. “We’re going home.”

He led them up to the deck just as the silhouette of their gunboat reappeared through the mist.

Cheers erupted.

Basso cupped his hands around his mouth. “Kyle! How the hell are you alive?”

Kyle shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on dying today.”

Back on land, after the medics had taken the princess and Amalia, after the chaos and adrenaline had begun to fade, a man approached Kyle.

Tall. Clean suit despite the night’s wind. Calm eyes. Government calm — the worst kind.

“Mr. Rhodes,” the man said. “Walk with me.”

Kyle wiped blood off his cheek. “If you’re from Lisbon Harbor Security, I didn’t damage that much property.”

The man smiled faintly. “I’m not here about the harbor.”

Kyle eyed him. “Who are you?”

“Someone with a very keen interest in what you did tonight. You boarded a hostile yacht alone. Killed men trained and armed better than most military units. Neutralized a bomb setup that should’ve killed everyone on board.”

Kyle didn’t respond.

“You did all that,” the man continued, “without augmentation, enhancers, implants, training, or authorization.”

Kyle said nothing.

“Imagine what you could do,” the recruiter said softly, “if we gave you… more.”

Kyle’s jaw tightened. “I’m not a science project.”

“No,” the recruiter said. “You’re an asset. One who could topple governments if pointed in the right direction.”

Kyle stared out at the sea.

For the first time, the recruiter saw the truth: this was not a man running from violence.

This was a man built from it.

And Kyle Rhodes — broken, angry, brilliant, reckless Kyle — realized the truth as well:

He had finally found something worth pointing himself at and for the first time in years — maybe ever — something sharp and dangerous glinted in his eyes.

Purpose.