Bang. Bang.
After evading the first volley, Alex raised his gun and expertly dropped two killers. He stepped forward, quick as a strike—then stomped down, snapping the wrist of a gunman who'd rolled over and tried to grab his weapon.
The killer's howl ripped through the alley. Alex didn't hesitate—he hauled the man up by the arm without mercy.
Rat‑tat‑tat—shots erupted from deeper in the alley. Alex had deliberately put that unlucky dog out front; the incoming rounds slammed into him. Behind his shoulder, Anna and eight Sisterhood operatives immediately pulled up their armored jackets to shield their heads.
Pfft! Pfft‑pfft!
Pfft! Pfft‑pfft!
The wet thuds of bullets hitting flesh reached Alex's ears. The tortured screams faded. In the end there was only silence. He dropped the corpse coldly, raised his gun and put another killer down.
Bang—
Bang‑bang.
One shot to the chest, one to the head. Alex killed again, then drew another pistol from his hip.
[9mm round: danger 42% — trajectory: abdomen — avoid: shift left 20cm]
[9mm round: danger 64% — trajectory: shoulder/neck — avoid: duck left 5cm]
He advanced. Micro‑instructions and trajectory previews flashed before his eyes. Sidestep. Slide left. Tilt the head. At the limit of human reaction, Alex dodged bullets as if following an invisible choreography.
Pretty soon, the killers in the alley developed the same warped illusion: bullets simply bent away from Alex, as if he were a god of war walking among them.
Bang.
Bang.
Alternating fire from both hands, Alex didn't hunt for pinpoint accuracy—he knocked men down, then Anna and the Sisterhood cleaned up with follow shots. In the two‑car‑width alley, men hiding in porches, stone steps, and corners looked like they'd seen a ghost. The bullet they fired had hardly left the muzzle before Alex had already adjusted his position and avoided it.
Bang. Bang.
Two rounds from Alex's guns punched through twenty meters ahead into the porches; two shooters screamed, clutching their feet and rolling in pain.
Bang! Bang!
He moved in—two more shots finished those targets. Then he burst into motion: pushing off with the left foot, leaping right with both pistols raised, firing with the momentum. A right‑foot kick sent a gun flying; Alex spun, a 360‑degree midair twist, and the guns barked again.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Four bullets, executed clean. Land, roll, back to feet. Bang! Bang!
Dual pistols to the right. Two quick shots. When Alex rose and strolled deeper into the alley, the killers on both sides were clutching injured limbs, writhing on the ground.
Behind him, Anna and the eight Sisterhood operatives surged forward to finish the sweep.
Gun‑fighting skill paired with Crisis Projection—on this tight stage it played like a flawless, lethal ballet.
On a rooftop some distance away, Daniel watched through binoculars and swallowed hard. Terrifying. If Caine or John Wick—top‑tier killers—could still be hit when outnumbered, then Alex here in the alley was on another level entirely. He seemed to perceive every bullet aimed at him before it was fired—divine evasion, surgical harvest.
While Daniel blinked in disbelief, Alex put two more men down.
At that instant Daniel's phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID: the town chief. No hesitation—he picked up.
"How's it going?"
"Our men—seven dead. Camorra killers—nine dead," Daniel replied, recounting the toll.
Silence on the line. The chief asked, "Alex's side?"
Daniel didn't hide the truth. "Alex himself knocked down sixteen killers. Everyone with him—Anna and the rest—moved and killed in perfect sync behind him."
There was a long, heavy pause. Daniel almost thought the call had been cut off. Then, through the quiet, the chief's voice snapped like breaking glass: a startled, half‑laughing expletive.
"That bastard Alex brings so few men to Prague—turns out he was hiding that kind of skill. Hell, I didn't expect him to be this strong."
"What do we do now?" Daniel asked, reflexively.
"Not yet," the chief said. "Pull some of our men back. Let the Camorra and the bounty hunters wear him down—let them exhaust him. When he's tired, you go in and bind him."
The elder's grunt told Daniel he wasn't overly worried. Without seeing Alex in person, the chief still considered a single killer toppling many not impossible—many killers had talent. If the old man could have witnessed Alex's performance through Daniel's eyes, he'd probably be ashamed he'd ever tried to snare such a war god—ashamed enough to kill himself rather than face it.
But for now the plan remained: attrition first, then capture.
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