Owen wiped the blood from his claw blade and turned toward the door. Judging from what he'd heard earlier, one of the guys had gone to the bathroom—that guy could return at any moment.
But before he even reached the door, it was pushed open from the outside. A man holding a cup of coffee walked in and locked eyes with Owen. He froze for a second, then noticed the blood splattered all over the walls. Dropping his coffee, he reached for the gun on his back.
In a flash, Owen hurled his claw blade, which buried itself in the man's arm, buying just enough time for Owen to draw his gun. The muzzle of the M870 flared, blasting out a cone of fiery death. Eight pellets from the 12-gauge shell ripped through the man—and the doorway behind him—sending him flying backward.
With the threat neutralized, Owen chambered another shell, only to turn around and find Brock staring at him with an even more disapproving look.
"Special circumstances…" Owen scratched his head awkwardly, trying to explain, but Brock just turned away and showed him the back of his head.
Damn it. Judged again.
The gunfire had blown their stealth plan to pieces. Now there was no choice but to go loud. But this was the Rogues' headquarters—storming it head-on would be exponentially more difficult than sneaking in.
Footsteps echoed from the side hallway. Owen swiveled his shotgun in that direction. As soon as the first figure appeared, he fired again. The blast hurled the man back. Owen reloaded and fired in rhythm, the mechanical "click-clack" sounds merging with bursts of light as every new enemy was mowed down in turn.
"Move~~"
Owen shouted as he charged into the corridor. Their goal now wasn't to wipe out everyone here—it was to find the target fast. To truly destroy the Rogues, killing the leader wouldn't be enough. They had to eliminate all three top bosses. Only then would the upper echelon be wiped out. The rest were just low-level grunts. Once their leadership was gone, the remaining gangs in the area would do the cleanup for them. That was the only way to erase the Rogues permanently.
Up ahead, another group of enemies appeared. Owen opened fire first, while Brock backed him up with his pistol.
Boom! Owen dropped one guy, and Brock nailed another with a few precise shots. Owen instinctively delivered a finishing shot to Brock's target, then continued reloading.
At the end of the hallway was a large hall with oil paintings hanging on the walls—pieces Owen didn't understand or care to. Art was the last thing on their minds right now. As they entered the hall, they heard footsteps coming from multiple side doors.
"What now?" Brock glanced at Owen.
Owen's eyes scanned the room and settled on a fire extinguisher in the corner.
He ran over and tossed extinguishers toward each door just as the footsteps neared.
"Brock~~~"
Owen shouted.
"Got it~~~"
Multiple doors burst open at once. Reinforcements from the Rogues appeared, wearing a mix of long hair, shaved heads, and biker vests. The patterns on their vests apparently indicated rank within the gang, but Owen didn't give a damn.
Owen and Brock each focused on one door, aiming at the extinguishers. Their bullets found the targets, rupturing the pressurized tanks. The metal shells exploded into shards, blasting outward. The Rogues in front took the full force of the shrapnel.
The crowd scattered, chaos erupting. Owen charged in, firing relentlessly. His 7-round tube emptied quickly, and he stood amid the bodies, reloading calmly. Around him, panicked Rogues scrambled to get up, but Owen was faster. As soon as the final shell clicked into place, he racked the action—ka-chak—and the shotgun thundered again.
Brock was much faster. After emptying one magazine, he switched in another. When that was spent, he tossed the pistol and grabbed a fallen Rogue's weapon, continuing to shoot.
The hall rang with overlapping gunfire, sustained and merciless. The extinguishers' explosions had only injured those in front; the rest had just been knocked down. But begging, cursing, pleading—it didn't matter. The result was the same: every last one turned into a corpse.
Neither Owen nor Brock was the merciful type. Once the fight started, they showed no hesitation. They both lived by the same creed: mercy to the enemy is cruelty to yourself.
Gathering more ammo, they pressed forward. Brock pointed the way, leading them to a stairwell. They moved quickly up to the second floor.
No sooner had they arrived than they ran into another group head-on.
This time, there was no ambush. It was a sudden standoff. These guys had been on their way down to reinforce the lower levels when they unexpectedly encountered Owen and Brock. Both sides dove for cover and opened fire.
Owen's shotgun was intimidating—every blast could take down multiple foes. But the Rogues had numbers. Even with just handguns, their combined firepower wasn't far behind.
Bullets zipped through the narrow corridor. One wrong move could be fatal. Owen spotted a room off to the side and motioned for Brock to follow. The current position was too exposed. If anyone came up from behind, they'd be finished.
Owen dashed inside, gunfire chasing after him. His last shell fired, and they slammed the door shut. He jammed the empty shotgun through the handle to brace it and began looking for an escape.
Behind them, bullets pounded the door, followed by the thud of someone trying to ram it open.
Owen scanned the room. It was a display room filled with animal trophies. Deer heads lined the walls. Inside glass cases were preserved tigers and leopards. Along another wall were weapons cabinets—various models of rifles and handguns mounted neatly. One side of the room was filled with knives.
Owen immediately spotted an M249 light machine gun inside one cabinet. He smashed the glass, grabbed the weapon—but the ammo belt was missing. Frantically, he searched until he found a display case for bullets and spotted the belt.
Brock saw where he was looking and figured it out instantly. The pounding on the door continued, and someone outside began firing at the lock. But the door wasn't held by the lock—it was braced. Even if they shot out the lock, they still couldn't get in right away.
Brock smashed the case, grabbed the ammo belt, and ran it over. Owen pulled back the charging handle and began loading it as fast as he could. The door shook violently, on the verge of giving way.
It was a race against time.
Finally, just as the door burst open, Owen locked in the last round. The gang members storming through heard one sound first—clack—Owen racking the bolt. Then came the scream of death—tat-tat-tat-tat!—the M249 roared.
The entrance erupted in a fountain of blood and flesh. Within seconds, the onrushing bodies were reduced to nothing more than shredded meat.
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