A seemingly minor crisis had just been averted. Against all odds—unfavorable terrain, being surrounded, running out of ammo—the two of them had survived. As if fate itself was on their side, the room they had fled into turned out not to be a display room, but an armory in disguise, stocked with weapons of all kinds.
Owen got to his feet, the room still thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder from the machine gun's burst. At the doorway, not a single enemy was left standing. In a confined space like this, the M249 was a weapon of pure devastation. Nothing could stop it.
Brock did a quick sweep—no survivors. The 5.56mm rounds fired by the M249 had torn through flesh with ease, often inflicting multiple hits with a single burst.
"Resupply and move out\~\~\~"
Owen gave the order as he turned to look for an assault rifle. In real combat, these weapons were more reliable than pistols or submachine guns—those could be stopped by cover, but an assault rifle would punch straight through.
They split up to check different weapon displays. Brock, who wasn't even wearing a bulletproof vest, had remembered seeing one in a display case earlier and headed in that direction.
Suddenly, a flash of white streaked past. Owen instinctively stopped, and with a dull "thunk," a throwing knife embedded itself in the display cabinet in front of him.
Looking toward the source, Owen saw two figures climbing through the window. One was a dark-skinned Brazilian with a kukri clenched between his teeth. The other was clearly Asian, and from the short katana in his mouth, probably Japanese. It was the Japanese man who had thrown the knife.
In the chaos earlier, no one had expected an attack from the windows. Good thing they had cleared the doorway first—if they'd been attacked from both ends, they would've been done for.
Owen hooked a pistol with his foot and flipped it into his hand, but before he could aim, another throwing knife slammed into him, knocking the gun away. In a flash, the Japanese man was already swinging his blade. On the other side, the Brazilian charged at Brock with his kukri.
The kukri, also known as the Gurkha knife, was one of the most efficient curved blades ever made. It was standard issue for special forces around the world and a favorite of warlords, drug traffickers, and African rebel groups alike.
"They're Curtis's assassins—!"
Brock shouted as he dodged. The Brazilian was immensely strong; one strike knocked the weapon from Brock's hand, forcing him into a retreat.
Earlier, on the road, Owen had already asked Brock for a full breakdown of their targets. The second-in-command, the bearded man, had already been killed at the repair shop. That left only Channing Musk, the leader, and Curtis Bowen, their number three. Despite his Western name, Curtis was actually Japanese and in charge of the Rogues' assassination unit. The Rogues' dominance in New Orleans was largely thanks to his team.
Now, one of his Japanese assassins was closing in with a short katana. More men were climbing in through the window. Another throwing knife flew at Brock—who, preoccupied with the Brazilian, didn't see it coming. Without hesitation, Owen pulled his claw blade and threw it. The two knives collided mid-air with a spray of sparks.
Brock was saved, but now Owen was unarmed. The Japanese assassin slashed horizontally. Owen retreated quickly and, seizing an opening, kicked his opponent in the groin. He went for the blade, but another Japanese man rushing in ruined the attempt.
A katana stabbed toward him. Owen dodged and, seeing no opportunity to disarm them, grabbed the scar-faced attacker in front of him and executed a judo throw, slamming him to the ground. He stomped hard on the katana, pinning it down, rendering it immobile.
At the same time, he trapped the incoming assassin's arm and smashed a palm strike into his throat. The man recoiled, stunned. Owen kicked the pinned katana aside and twisted the other assassin's arm, driving his own blade into his chest.
As the man collapsed, Owen turned his attention back to the scar-faced one, who had gotten back up. Owen staggered to his feet, and the two men lunged at each other—only to both fall again in a tangle of limbs. Owen's backward momentum sent him crashing into a display case, knocking over a mounted antelope specimen.
The scar-faced man was relentless. He kipped up and charged again. Owen's hand landed on something hard—it was part of the antelope's horn. He raised it to block, but the katana sliced part of it off.
Realizing what it was, Owen hurled the remaining half of the horn at the man and followed with a flying kick, knocking him down again. He grabbed another antelope horn and drove it deep into the leg of another attacker rushing toward him, then smashed the man's head against a display case.
Glass shattered. Blood gushed from the man's face. But Owen's eyes lit up—inside the broken cabinet were all kinds of blades.
Another Brazilian, seeing Owen holding his own against two assassins, gave up on Brock and charged. Owen grabbed a throwing knife and hurled it—it lodged in the man's chest.
Owen immediately picked up two more knives and threw them. The scar-faced assassin, imitating him, also shattered a glass case and retaliated with his own knives.
Four knives crossed paths in mid-air. One of the enemy's hit Owen in the shoulder; the other he managed to duck. Owen's knives struck true—one hit the chest of one assassin, the other buried itself in the scar-faced man's shoulder.
The one with a chest wound fell, eyes wide, body trembling. The scar-faced man, though wounded, was vicious. He yanked the knife out and threw it again. Owen did the same—but this time, his blade struck first, piercing the man's eye socket and pinning him to a display case. The enemy's knife missed narrowly, stabbing the floor just inches from Owen's groin.
Footsteps pounded behind him. Two more enemies who had been fighting Brock were rushing his way. Before they arrived, another pair of knives flew toward Owen.
He grabbed the body of the previously stabbed man and used it as a shield. The sound of knives slicing into flesh was sickeningly constant.
Owen grabbed more throwing knives and darted out from behind the corpse. He threw them all in quick succession—knives lodged in flesh again and again. He didn't care if they were dead or not. He grabbed a handful of daggers and kept throwing until the entire display case was emptied.
At last, the two enemies dropped to their knees and died with eyes wide open. Their torsos were riddled with blades—some in fatal areas, others not. It didn't matter. They weren't getting up again.
Owen's side of the fight was finally over. Brock still had one opponent left. Things had gotten too intense earlier, and Owen hadn't had a chance to check on him. Judging from the bodies lying around, Brock hadn't had it easy either.
Unlike Owen, Brock had fought bare-handed the entire time. Even after disarming his enemies, he never picked up their weapons. He insisted on hand-to-hand combat.
One-on-one, these assassins were no match for Brock. He disarmed one, broke his arm, then calmly crushed his throat in a single clean blow.
Owen didn't lift a finger to help. Brock had everything under control. Owen used the moment to sit down and recover some stamina.
While Brock was finishing off the last enemy, one of the previously downed assassins, not quite dead yet, began to crawl toward a weapon.
Owen, breathing heavily, rose slowly. From a nearby cabinet, he pulled out a medieval battle axe. Gripping it with both hands, he spun around and hurled it.
Brock had just dispatched the final opponent when he saw Owen's axe whirling past him. With a solid "thunk," it embedded itself in the skull of the crawling assassin, pinning him to the floor. The katana he had been reaching for clattered harmlessly from his hand.
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