Let's Get Wed or You're Dead

CH 5: Mission unaccomplished!

CHAPTER 5

The crack was sharp and wrong in the morning.

The bullet struck. Blood bloomed against the man's chest, a violent backward jerk. He hit a parked motorcycle, metal clanging, and went down hard.

Then all hell broke loose.

Someone yelled. A delivery cart flipped over, boxes spilling out into the street. A kid was crying. People ran in every direction, the panic spreading faster than the sound of the shot.

The target spun and crawled. He wasn't dead.

Samantha pressed her lips together and took a silent breath. After all she had to do this with her hands. The surge of frantic people were running anywhere from the unknown source of the attack, but she began to move towards the man.

But then, movement made her stop mid-step when a rush of white came straight to the side of her target. A stranger in a white polo immediately dropped on his knees, fingers pressing into the wound.

Alesandrie tried to steady the man and not to keep moving because of his open wound, but he was rejecting his help.

"Get away from me!" The man exclaimed in a frantic tone as he pushed his hand.

"Calm down. Don't move too much." Andrie tried to help him turn around, and the man let him hold his arm to assist. Then the man insisted on getting up. "You shouldn't move. You're bleeding." He tried to make him lay on the ground to refrain from restraining himself, which would make more blood gush out, but the man still had strength.

Samantha couldn't see the face of the man who was interrupting her kill. His back was to her.

"I'll adjust," the sniper said through the earpiece, his breath tightening. "Ready to—"

"Hold," Samantha cut in.

She couldn't hear what the two men were saying in the middle of the commotion, but her target was still very much alive and kicking. He was refusing the help from the stranger.

Then her target's eyes lifted. Jeff, her prey, saw her. His eyes widened in panic. Before the other man could turn his head to look behind him at what made him more uneasy, she had already retreated and hid behind a column.

The wounded man lashed out in blind panic, shoving the stranger with all the strength fear could still give him.

The man in white stumbled back, shoes scraping against the pavement, arms flailing for balance. That single heartbeat was all the target needed. He twisted away and ran, veering sharply from the open street into a narrower path between buildings, leaving a broken trail of dark red drops behind him.

Samantha retreated at once, slipping into the shadow of a parked vehicle, letting the chaos swallow her presence. Her eyes never left the target. She caught his new direction, the uneven rhythm of his steps, and the way his shoulder sagged as blood continued to pour from his chest.

She followed.

Every sound sharpened. The city seemed to breathe louder. Somewhere behind her, sirens wailed distantly but were approaching.

The man in the white polo was already moving again.

He sprang to his feet. He didn't stop to look at the crowd. He didn't even slow down despite the danger. His focus was locked on the wounded man fleeing ahead of him.

Samantha closed the distance to Jeff.

Her fingers closed around the knife's hilt. She was all ready to approach, just waiting for the traitor to come her way and she would meet him halfway. But Jeff didn't make it to her hiding spot.

He collided with the wall of a narrow building and slid down until his back hit concrete with a hollow thud. His legs gave out completely, breath tearing in and out of him in wet, broken sounds.

She was only steps away. Cold sweat formed at her temples. Her breathing was slightly ragged. Some strands of hair stuck to the side of her face and neck.

Just one strike. Clean and silent and it'll be done. She only made a step out of her hiding spot when white cut into her path again.

The man reached the target first, dropping to his knees and catching him before his head could crack against the wall. He pressed both hands to the wound, palms firm, body leaning in as if he could physically hold the life inside the man.

Samantha froze.

Goddamn it!

Frustration flared hot and sharp in her chest, a flash of fury she crushed down just as quickly.

"Sniper, retreat," she said into her earpiece, her voice low and controlled.

The order was final.

The man in white spoke rapidly to the wounded target, his voice steady despite the blood soaking through his fingers. People began to gather, drawn by the spectacle, by the sirens growing louder, and by the simple human instinct to witness disaster. Their bodies closed in, shoulder to shoulder, forming a living barrier that boxed Samantha out.

She eased the knife back into its sheath.

"Don't touch him," the man said firmly, lifting his head to the crowd. "Give him space."

The target sagged further, eyelids fluttering, consciousness slipping. The man pressed harder against the wound, then looked up again, scanning faces. "I need a clean cloth," he said. "Anything clean."

His other hand held his phone, thumb tight against the screen as he stayed on the line with emergency services, relaying information between breaths.

Samantha stood unmoving at the edge of the scene. As if there was no one coming in between her view of them, as if there were no noises from the crowd like bees swarming together. She only saw him doing the unimaginable for her, which made her breath harden.

She watched his hands first. They were strong, steady, and unshaking despite the blood, despite the man dying beneath them. Then her gaze traveled upward, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the straight bridge of his nose, and the thick brows pulled tight with concentration. His gray eyes were clear, focused, and unwavering. Full lips moved quickly as he spoke, issuing instructions, refusing to yield.

He looked almost unreal. Even as sweat rolled down his temples and dark strands of hair clung to his brows, even as his white shirt was stained red, he carried himself like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

Her fingers curled into fists, and her jaw ticked. She stared coldly at the scene before her. The longer she looked, a part of her wanted to laugh at the irony she was currently witnessing. This stranger in white was keeping the very life she was ordered to take right in front of her.

Impressive. How fascinating. Her heart beat faster as she felt the other surge of emotions in her. The furious part. She couldn't finish her task because of this meddlesome civilian. She exhaled a frustrated breath through gritted teeth.

Her gaze shifted past him, sweeping the area. One of her men stood farther back now, posture stiff, attention split between the crowd and her. Samantha caught his eye and gave a small, deliberate shake of her head.

Retreat.

She wouldn't let this escalate. Not with civilians this close, and with police and an ambulance seconds away.

As she turned her attention back, the man tending to the target lifted his head. Alesandrie's eyes rose above the crowd and caught on someone standing farther before them, above the heads of some people who squatted on the ground to assist. A woman, still and striking in the middle of the chaos, watching with an intensity that did not belong to a bystander.

For a fleeting moment, their gazes met. There was something odd familiarity there.

Then the wounded man twitched, his fingers brushing weakly against the hand pressing into his chest. Alesandrie looked down at once, attention snapping back to the fragile life beneath his palms.

Samantha took in the scene one final time. The blood pooling against concrete. The man was fighting death with bare hands. The crowd was murmuring and pressing closer. The sirens wailing made her ears ring with how close they were now.

Then she turned away.

Her steps were calm and unhurried, disappearing into the street as the ambulance stopped and the police got out of their patrols.

And the mission, for now, was unfinished.