His Virgin Stripper

20- The Devil Bleeds

Marcello

My eyes locked onto the perimeter the second the SUV pulled out of the gravel driveway, the heavy, reinforced tires kicking up a spray of dirt as it accelerated into the fading, late afternoon light.

I didn't look directly at Sienna through the heavily tinted, armored glass, but my chest tightened with a rare, unwanted spike of raw adrenaline until the tail lights cleared the main iron gate.

She was out of the immediate line of fire, moving toward safety, or at least the closest thing to a sanctuary that existed within the borders of my world.

A sudden flicker of movement caught my attention, breaking my focus.

Through a narrow, jagged gap in the crumbling concrete wall bordering the eastern edge of the property, I caught a bastard crouching near the edge of the alleyway.

His frame was tense and rigid as he raised a high-caliber rifle, tracking the path of the vehicle. Before my hand could even clear my holster, the bastard pulled his trigger.

Thud.

His suppressed weapon coughed, and the round streaked across the courtyard, striking the side window of the retreating SUV with a violent, heavy impact.

Rage, pure and blinding, turned the blood in my veins to absolute ice. My hand moved instantly, years of brutal, unyielding muscle memory completely overriding any need for conscious thought or hesitation.

I raised my sidearm in one smooth, sweeping motion, aligned the iron sights, and pointed the barrel straight at his temple. I pulled the trigger.

The bullet left the barrel and cracked straight through his skull before he could even chamber a second round to try and finish the job.

He dropped hard into the dirt like a puppet with its strings violently severed, his rifle clattering uselessly against the wet stone.

I kept my back pressed flat against the cold bricks of the building, letting my eyes wander lazily across the opposite tree line and the empty, dark windows of the apartment blocks across the street. I searched the area, scanning every shadow, every rooftop ledge, and every structural angle for any other hidden nests where the rest of them might be waiting to ambush us.

The calculated spacing of the incoming fire we had heard just moments ago, combined with the strategic way they were closing down the outer road, made the reality obvious.

They weren't just executing a sloppy, chaotic street hit; they were systematically cutting off our intersections. They knew the terrain perfectly. We were slowly getting surrounded.

I turned on my heel and rushed back inside the residential building, my shoes hitting the concrete stairs with a muted rhythm as I made my way to the upper floor where my men had already begun setting up their snipers.

The room was dark, the cheap plastic blinds pulled entirely shut to block out the remaining daylight and prevent any glare from reflecting off our optics.

The air inside the cramped space was already thick, smelling of heavy sweat, worn leather, and raw, suffocating tension. I walked the line of men, my silent presence cutting through the heavy quiet like a blade.

"Don't get too close to the center of the window frames," I ordered, my voice low but carrying a lethal authority that made two of the younger soldiers instantly stiffen and adjust their posture.

I pointed toward the deep, recessed corners of the drywall where the shadows were heaviest.

"Position yourselves where you can hardly be seen from the street, but you have a clear, open angle to easily see their attackers. I want you completely hidden within the architecture of this room.”

“Do not give away your position or your muzzle flash until they actually cross the perimeter of the outer gate. And make sure the suppressors are twisted locked tight on those barrels.” I paused.

“We are in a highly populated residential area. We don't need the local precinct swarming this block before we clear the field, pack our gear, and burn the evidence."

"Understood, boss," Dante muttered, his jaw tight. He shifted his long, high-caliber rifle deeper into the darkness of the window frame, his thick, scarred fingers double-checking that the threads of the heavy silencer were perfectly aligned and secure against the barrel.

"Luka, hold the secondary angle by the hallway entrance," I commanded, checking the magazine of my own sidearm before slamming it back into the grip with a sharp, mechanical click.

"Watch the narrow alley below. Anyone steps into the open, anyone tries to flank the rear exit to cut off our retreat, you take them out quietly. No warnings. No mistakes."

Once the men were perfectly set in the darkness, a wall of stone guarding the perimeter, I pulled out my phone and placed a call to Enzo.

The line rang twice before the encrypted connection picked up. "Marcello," Enzo answered immediately, his voice tight, alert, and entirely focused.

In the background on his end, I could hear the faint, sharp rustle of heavy plate carriers being adjusted and weapons being cycled.

He was already preparing for the worst-case scenario.

"The girls are on their way to the safe house right now," I said, keeping my tone flat, cold, and entirely even. I didn't let the chaos of the active perimeter bleed into my words.

"Get your entire perimeter ready. The extraction out here was tight, which means there is a high probability they might have been followed on the main road or tracked via the highway cameras. The exact second that SUV arrives, lock down the safehouse. Don't let a single soul in or out, and send a backup crew to my coordinates immediately. We are holding the line at the rental until the block is completely clear of hostiles."

"I'm sending a heavy crew to your coordinates right now," Enzo's voice came through.

"They’ll take the eastern highway route to completely avoid the local blockades the enemy is setting up."

"Good. Keep your eyes open and watch the mirrors."

The line went dead. I shoved the phone back into my pocket and turned to the line of riflemen waiting patiently in the dark room.

"Get to work,"

Instantly, the room erupted into a controlled chaos.

Muffled, heavy thuds followed my order—a rhythmic, synchronized series of suppressed gunshots that vibrated violently through the floorboards beneath my boots.

Without the deafening, metallic roar of unsuppressed rifles, the concussive force was entirely contained within the walls, keeping the true scale of the violence localized to the complex. Outside, targets began to drop silently into the gravel of the alleyway.

But as I stood near the rear wall, watching the calculated, highly aggressive movement of the incoming attackers, a cold, heavy knot tightened deep in my gut. Something was wrong about this entire setup.

There was no way an enemy could have tracked us down to a random, unlisted, off-market Airbnb this fast. They knew our primary exit routes, and they knew the exact layout of the residential complex. Someone had sold the location.

The realization made my blood burn with a quiet, murderous rage that threatened to break through my composure. I left the snipers to hold the upper room and walked out into the corridor.

I crossed the open courtyard, completely avoiding the main common areas as I headed toward the separate, low-slung commercial building that housed the front reception desk.

If anyone on this entire property had handled the digital logistics, and the check-in details for our arrival, it was the management contact on site.

I threw the glass door open, stepping inside the quiet office. The contrast was striking—the muffled, rhythmic thud of suppressed gunfire outside felt miles away compared to the stagnant, dust-heavy silence of the front room.

A man stood behind the wooden counter, his back turned to me as he casually sifted through a stack of loose papers. He began to turn around slowly, a tight, artificial smile plastered onto his face that didn't reach his eyes.

I didn't pull my gun. I wanted answers first, and I wanted them from his throat. I lunged across the counter, my large frame easily bridging the distance as my hand flew out to grip his collar and drag his face into the wood.

But the bastard was waiting for it.

The moment my hand reached for him, his right arm blurred in a vicious, upward arc. A cold, blinding flash of steel cut through the dim light of the office.

A heavy hunting knife caught me by surprise, the blade slicing upward with a professional, lethal force. He wasn't a clerk.

I reacted on pure instinct, twisting my torso to avoid a fatal disembowelment, but the blade still found its mark. The heavy steel drove straight into my flesh.