RED LINE

Chapter III

Randoll’s rusty red car still sits under the rain outside The Whiskey Cellar Bar. He steps out and walks inside the low-lit bar. He stands by the entrance for a moment, scanning the room, then heads for the counter.

The elderly bartender waves off a few customers.

“Do come again,” he says, then mutters to himself, “Lovely folks.”

He notices Randoll.

“Oh, hey there, old timer. Got your package right here.”

The bartender bends down and pulls out a medium-sized black box marked with a white four-leaf clover. He sets it on the counter.

“Gotta say, your friend described you pretty well. Strange fella, though — came in here wearing a mask.”

He chuckles, then adds,

“Oh, and he paid for some alone time with the TV for you, too.”

He nods toward a small table with a chair and a dusty television beside it. Randoll takes the package and heads to the table. He sits down, pulls a CD from his pocket, and slides it into the DVD player.

The bartender approaches with a drink and places it beside him.

“Here’s your drink — courtesy of the gentleman over there.”

He points to a man sitting alone at a distant table. The man raises his glass toward Randoll and drinks.

The bartender walks away as Randoll presses play. The screen flickers, then reveals a dimly lit video: a young woman — Randoll’s daughter — sits blindfolded in her underwear, tied to a chair beneath a harsh spotlight. The rest of the room is swallowed in darkness.

After a minute, a large, tattooed, shirtless man steps into the light, holding a small bucket. His face is painted white. Randoll’s daughter starts to cry, pleading softly. The man crouches before her, slowly opening the bucket. He dips his hand inside and keeps it there for a moment before pulling it out — his fingers dripping with mixed colors of paint.

He begins smearing the paint across her skin, moaning in twisted delight as she squirms and cries. Randoll slams his hand down on the DVD player, cracking it. The video cuts off.

Every eye in the bar turns toward him. After a tense pause, he hits it again — and again — the loud thuds echoing through the room. Then he stands, throws a cold glare at the man who brought him the drink, and walks out into the rain.

Moments later, he’s back in his car. He opens the package, revealing a black suit, polished shoes, a tie, and a black envelope. The little phone rings again. Randoll presses the button, and after a brief pause, the deep voice speaks:

“Agent Creeper, I take it you’ve received the second package. Inside, you’ll find an attire that should fit perfectly — and an envelope.”

Randoll opens the envelope, revealing two photos: one of a massive hotel complex, the other a half-cut portrait of an agent with a devil's head tattoo.

“The envelope contains the image of your mission location — the Devil Spawn base — and your targets. Eliminate every individual with the devil’s mark. You have fifty minutes.”

The call ends. The phone screen lights up — a timer begins counting down from 50:00. Randoll sets the phone down, starts the engine, and drives off.

The long night continues — D-Spawn Hotel and Suites. His rusty red car pulls up outside. Dressed sharply in a black suit, he steps out and enters the hotel. He pauses, scanning the bustling hall before locking eyes on the receptionist’s desk and walking toward it.

The female receptionist greets him with a smile, and Randoll immediately notices the devil’s head tattoo on her neck.

“Good evening, sir. Please take a seat on the waiting bench. Someone will be with you shortly,” she says.

Randoll nods, and turns around, and quietly walks away.

The receptionist picks up the phone. “Hello, yes, we might have a—”

Randoll rises from behind the counter, stabbing her in the neck with a pen. She collapses, blood spilling fast. A security guard spots him and shouts, “Hey! You’re not supposed to be—”

Randoll throws the pen, striking the guard in the eye. The guard screams and fires blindly in pain. The guard fires frantically as civilians scream and scatter. Randoll vaults over the counter, slides across it, and slams the guard to the floor. He grabs the man’s gun and fires.

More guards appear along the balcony railing above, shooting down. Randoll rolls aside, rise to his feet, and takes them out one by one with precise shots.

Two more guards rush down the stairs toward him. Randoll drops them both, then advances upward. Another guard burst from the hallway, firing. Randoll dives to the side, rushes him, jams the gun into his face, hooks his neck, and throws him over the stairs.

A shot rings out from below. Randoll ducks as bullets shred the staircase railing. He fires through an opening in the railing; the bullet hits the guard’s leg, dropping him to his knees. Randoll rises and finishes him with a headshot.

He snaps his head toward a movement — another guard charges. Randoll throws his gun; the guard flinches, and Randoll closes in, grabbing his neck and snapping it. Then he picks up the fallen gun and keeps moving.

Randoll enters a long hallway where terrified civilians kneel with their hands raised. He advances slowly, scanning their necks for tattoos.

At the far end, an armed agent opens fire. Randoll darts into a side corridor to his right. Two guards sprint toward him — one swings his gun like a club. Randoll ducks and kicks him aside. The other fires, but Randoll deflects the aim with his own weapon, trips him, and fire twice — one shot for each guard.

He ducks behind a wall just as Agent One steps into the hallway.

“Nowhere to hide, prick — you’re in the Devil’s pit now,” Agent One taunts, moving closer.

Randoll fires at a nearby fire extinguisher. It burst, flooding the hallway with white gas. The emergency lights flicker red.

“s**t!” Agent One coughs, losing visibility.

Randoll slams the butt of his gun into Agent One’s face, dropping him. He raises his weapon to finish him — then hears footsteps.

A female agent (Agent Two) burst in, firing from behind. Randoll dives into a side room, narrowly dodging a s***h from another female agent (Agent Three) wielding dual katanas. He sweeps her legs, sending her to the ground, then turns on Agent Two before she can shoot — firing until she drops.

Randoll looks down — Agent Three has vanished.

Suddenly, Agent One charges, kicking Randoll’s gun away and landing a punch. He tries to throw Randoll down, but Randall overpowers him, lifting and slamming him into the wall.

As Agent One struggles to rise, Randoll drives a brutal kick into his neck — a sharp c***k ends it.

Suddenly, more guards open fire. Randoll gets hit in the arm as he takes cover. He picks up Agent Two’s pistol and rolls out, shooting at their legs. The guards collapse, and Randoll stands over them, executing each one.

He advances, kicking down doors of terrified occupants who shrink back in fear. Randoll scans each neck for the devil’s head tattoo as he moves.

“You’re Agent Creeper of Novice?” a woman’s voice calls from hiding.

“Thought they said you retired. You’re getting too old for this,” she adds, laughing.

Randoll stops and looks at a door, then fires through it into the room. After several shots, his gun clicks empty. He drops the gun just as Agent Three leaps from the darkness to his left, swinging her katanas.

Randoll dodges the slashes effortlessly.

“Aargh! Stay still!” Agent Three yells, slashing wildly.

Randoll kicks her legs apart, sending her to the ground like a fallen dancer. Her swords clatter away. He grabs one, seizes her by the neck, and hurls her against the wall. She crashes hard and slides down.

Randoll flings the katana at her — it pierces through her chest, pinning her to the wall. He stares for a moment, then moves on.

In a large master room, an agent (Agent 4) stands by the door with a machine gun, waiting for any intruder. Behind him, a man in glasses, clearly in charge, sits on the bed with a phone in hand.

“Ah, revolting… I’m getting no response,” the man mutters in frustration.

Outside the room, Randoll arrives with his gun. He shoots the knob and steps aside. Agent 4 unleashes a burst, shredding the door. Randoll looks up at the vent above.

Inside, the agent exhales.

“Did you get him?” the man in glasses asks.

“Can’t say for sure, sir.”

“Why the f**k is Novice after me? Sending that lunatic! I just hope those French f***s arrive in time. God, this is a mess.”

The agent lowers his gun—and Randoll crashes down from the ceiling vent, landing behind him.

“s**t! Behind you!” the man in glasses shouts.

Randoll fires a single shot into Agent 4’s back. The agent drops dead. Randoll turns to the man.

“Why? The Devil’s Spawn isn’t at war with Novice.”

Randoll fires again. The man slumps, lifeless. Randoll drops the gun, grabs the machine gun, and turns toward the shattered doorway. He listens—the sound of French mercenaries approaching.

They shout in their language:

“Vérifie là-bas!” (“Check over there!”)

“Fais attention!” (“Be careful!”)

“Couvrez la sortie!” (“Cover the exit!”)

“On y va!” (“Let’s go!”)

We wait behind the hotel for Randoll as the sound of gunfire rattles inside. After a moment, he emerges, sliding down a drainpipe. He tosses the bloodstained suit into a dumpster and heads toward the front. Fleets of police cars swarm the entrance; dozens of officers aim their guns. Randoll raises his hands as they close in.