Chapter 424: Mission Accomplished
Gunfire erupted. Bullets sliced through the air toward Fiona. She twisted sideways—the rounds punched into a pillar behind her. Without breaking momentum, she rolled behind the display counter, flicked her wrist, and a poisoned needle shot from her sleeve. It struck the shooter square in the throat. He collapsed instantly, lifeless before he hit the ground.
The boutique exploded into chaos. Gunshots cracked, metal clashed, screams tore through the night. Over forty Rivera operatives swarmed her position.
Fiona moved like a phantom. She vaulted the counter, blade flashing in the dim light. One guard lunged—she sidestepped, drove her knife into his ribs, twisted, and shoved him into the next attacker. Both went down in a tangle of limbs.
A bullet grazed her shoulder. She barely flinched. Another needle flew. Another body dropped.
Blood slicked the polished marble floors. Bodies piled up near overturned jewelry cases. The boutique—once a symbol of laundered Rivera wealth—became a slaughterhouse.
The last guard stumbled backward, firing wildly. Fiona closed the distance in two strides. Her blade punched through his throat. He gurgled, clutching at the wound, then crumpled.
Silence.
Only Fiona's steady breathing remained. That, and the overwhelming stench of blood saturating the air.
She didn't pause to admire her work. Moving with mechanical precision, she wiped down surfaces, collected shell casings, gathered documents implicating the Rivera family's money laundering operations. Within minutes, she'd stripped the scene of evidence, leaving behind only carnage.
Then she vanished into the night.
Back at the safe house, Emily sat rigid on the sofa, phone clutched in her hand. The wall clock ticked past one a.m. Her brow furrowed slightly. Concern flickered across her features—had something gone wrong?
Her phone screen lit up. A single message from Fiona: Mission accomplished.
The tension in Emily's shoulders eased. A cold smile curved her lips.
Perfect. Phase one complete.
Tonight's operation would send the Riveras into a fury. They'd tighten security, lash out in retaliation. Emily didn't care. She wanted them enraged. She wanted them to know the Campbells had come for blood.
At Rivera Manor, Victor jolted awake to pounding on his bedroom door. When his aide delivered the news—both the west-side warehouse and the jewelry boutique hit, every guard slaughtered—his face drained of color. Rage contorted his features. His entire body trembled.
"Who?!" Victor's roar echoed through the estate. His fist slammed onto his desk hard enough to crack the wood. "Find them! I don't care if you have to tear this city apart—find whoever did this! Anyone who dares strike Rivera holdings on my turf is a dead man!"
His subordinate kept his head bowed, voice shaking slightly. "Mr. Rivera, there's... nothing to find. No prints, no footage, no witnesses. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. Military precision. Based on the kill patterns, we're dealing with an elite operator. Not some street thug. A professional assassin. Top-tier."
"Professional assassin..." Victor's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Sebastian. This reeks of that bastard. Must be that attack dog of his—Fiona. Who else would have the balls to hit us on our own territory? Who else could pull off a double massacre in one night?"
His hands clenched into fists. "Double security at every property. I want extra guards rotating shifts around the clock. And I want everything on this Natasha woman and her bodyguard. Background, whereabouts, connections—I want it all. Inform Miguel to watch his back. That woman's dangerous. We need to eliminate her before she becomes a bigger problem."
"Yes, Mr. Rivera!" The aide practically fled the study, terrified of becoming a target for Victor's wrath.
Alone in the darkened room, Victor sank into his chair, face twisted with fury and unease.
Back at the safe house, a soft knock sounded at Emily's door. She recognized the rhythm immediately.
"Come in," she said, her tone softer than before.
Fiona entered. The bloodstains were gone, her tactical gear immaculate, but the aura of violence still clung to her like a second skin. She stopped in front of Emily and gave a curt nod.
"Mission accomplished. Both locations cleared. No traces left behind. And as requested..." She pulled a flash drive from her pocket and set it on the table. "Evidence of the Riveras' money laundering operation from the boutique."
Emily picked up the drive, turning it between her fingers. Her eyes glinted with cold satisfaction. "Excellent work, Fiona. Thank you."
"Just doing my job." Fiona's expression remained impassive.
Emily met her gaze. "The Riveras are going to be out for blood now. They'll tighten security and come after us with everything they've got. We need to stay sharp. No mistakes." She paused. "Tomorrow, you're coming with me to meet Campbell loyalists still operating underground. We need to rebuild our network, reclaim what's ours, and find out what happened to my grandfather."
"Understood."
Thalassia. Windsor Estate private airstrip.
A sleek jet taxied down the runway, engines roaring as it lifted off, banking toward Seraphim.
Inside the cabin, warm ambient lighting cast shadows across Charles's gaunt features. He reclined in the leather seat, eyes half-closed, fingertips pressed against his temple. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths.
The black suit hung loose on his frame—he'd lost weight again. His collar hung open, revealing medical bandages wrapped beneath. Evidence of the virus eating him alive from the inside.
Nathan stood nearby, clutching Charles's latest medical report like it might catch fire. Every metric on those pages screamed the same warning: Charles was running on borrowed time.
"Mr. Windsor, you should rest. We've still got three hours before we land." Nathan's voice was tight with concern. "The doctors were very clear—you can't afford this kind of strain. I could handle the Whitebeard meeting in your place. You don't need to—"
Charles's eyes opened slowly. Exhaustion clouded his gaze, but his voice carried unmistakable steel. "No. I need to be there myself."
Whitebeard Group wielded immense influence across Seraphim and beyond. The new CEO, Ace, had ruthlessly consolidated power in mere months, stabilizing the conglomerate while quietly maneuvering in political circles. His endorsement could swing the presidential election.