Two hours later.
Rome.
Camorra Family Headquarters.
Crash!
A crystal glass shattered against the marble wall, bursting into glittering shards.
Gianna D'Antonio trembled as she stared once again at the message on her phone:
> [All operatives eliminated. Santino D'Antonio—deceased.]
Below the text was a photo:
Santino's forehead—blown open by a single bullet hole—half his body crushed beneath a wrecked car.
Gianna's heart went cold.
She had despised her incompetent brother, had called him a fool more times than she could count.
But even then, she had only hated his weakness—never wished for his death.
Now, looking at that horrific image, rage consumed every bit of reason she had left.
"Gianna," came Cassian's calm voice beside her,
"you need to stay composed. Going after Alex Cross in blind fury will only get you killed."
Cassian's tone broke through her storm of emotion.
Sadness followed swiftly after anger.
But before she could process the grief, her phone began to ring again.
Seeing the caller ID, Gianna drew a deep breath and answered.
"Father…"
There was silence.
Then the deep, commanding voice of Don D'Antonio filled the line:
> "Gianna. No matter the cost—Alex Cross must die in Prague. Make him pay with his life, for Santino… and for every assassin we've lost."
He ended the call without waiting for a reply.
Beep… beep…
Gianna stood frozen, the monotonous tone echoing in her ear.
Her father hadn't said it outright—but she could feel it.
The blame.
The disappointment.
Tears welled in her eyes. Guilt, grief, and fury churned together.
Finally, she rose from her chair, walked to the liquor cabinet, poured a glass of whiskey, and downed it in one breath.
Setting the glass aside, her eyes hardened once more.
"Cassian," she ordered coldly, "find out why that secret organization approached Santino in the first place—and if Alex Cross has any past connection with them."
Cassian nodded, relieved to see her strength return.
"Yes, ma'am."
He turned and left the room.
---
Meanwhile…
Daniel's car tore across miles of snow-covered roads.
After four relentless hours, he finally reached the gates of Hallstatt Town.
Seeing him drenched in blood, the guards waved him through immediately.
He drove down the central street and pulled up in front of the Mayor's residence.
Stumbling out, Daniel climbed the stone steps and pounded on the heavy oak door.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Moments later, the door opened.
The mayor's face paled at the sight of Daniel's blood-soaked arm. He immediately called for the town doctor.
Thirty minutes later, the bullet was extracted.
A bag of blood dripped into Daniel's veins, slowly bringing color back to his face.
When he finally regained strength, Daniel turned toward the mayor sitting by the fireplace.
"Mayor…" he said weakly, voice laced with guilt,
"capturing Alex Cross alive—it's almost impossible. None of us realized how powerful he truly is. Everyone… is dead."
The old man turned, but there was no anger on his face—only grim satisfaction.
"You've done well," the mayor said softly. "We've lost dozens, yes—but now we understand his capabilities. We'll wait. When the Prague bounty hunters wear him down, we'll strike again."
Daniel lowered his gaze, his face showing concern for the town.
The mayor rose and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You're injured, Daniel. Don't worry about the capture. Rest—and spend the evening with your daughter."
He clapped his hands.
From the adjoining room, a woman emerged, carrying Daniel's two-year-old daughter in her arms.
Daniel's eyes softened instantly. He took the child, hugging her tight.
"I'm sorry, Mayor. I failed you…"
The old man smiled gently, ruffling the girl's hair.
"Go. Get some rest tonight."
"…Yes."
Daniel nodded, turned, and stepped out into the cold night.
As he opened the door, he glanced toward the car parked by the roadside.
His eyes hardened.
He buckled his daughter safely into the passenger seat, then looked back one last time at the mayor's brightly lit house.
His lips curled into a cold smirk.
---
Boom!
A shotgun blast echoed in the distance.
A pursuer on a motorcycle was sent flying as Alex Cross pumped another shell into the chamber of his Benelli M4.
Sliding back into the armored SUV, he raised the window—cracked and spider-webbed from gunfire.
"How much longer to the airport?" he asked evenly.
"Five minutes, Mr. Cross," Heather replied from behind the wheel.
She jerked the steering wheel hard, ramming the side of an enemy vehicle.
Above them, the roar of a passenger jet thundered across the night sky.
It had been twelve hours since Alex and his team escaped the alley.
Twelve hours of nonstop killing.
He no longer knew how many assassins had fallen.
Only that every ounce of his training, every fragment of instinct—hand-to-hand combat, gunplay, tactical movement—had returned to perfection.
If someone were to count, they'd find that, on average, one bounty hunter died by Alex Cross's hand every three minutes.
Half an hour earlier, The White Widow had called.
Her message was simple—Alex's "guest" would be landing in Prague within thirty minutes.
Since then, he had cut down another dozen killers on the road.
Now, at last, the airport loomed ahead.
Setting aside his shotgun, Alex drew his suppressed pistol, checked the mag, chambered a round—
—and led Anna and the Sisterhood through the arrival gate of Prague International Airport.
The hunt wasn't over.
Not even close.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you're interested, you can read advanced chapters:
pat reon .com / Samorash