Chapter 112
Isabella's POV
The explosion detonated ahead of us with earth-shattering force, a massive shockwave slamming into our vehicle. I gasped involuntarily as inertia threw me forward, seatbelt cutting across my chest.
Fire erupted skyward in a column of orange-red flame that tore the darkness apart. The heat blast reached us even through the windows, like a burning hand slapping against my face. Debris rained down—rocks and metal fragments hammering the roof and hood in deafening staccato.
"Get down!" Gabriel barked.
His reaction was lightning-fast—he yanked me into his arms, one arm locked around my shoulders like an iron band, grip so tight I could barely breathe but bringing a strange sense of safety.
The convoy screeched to a halt, tires shrieking against pavement. I felt the car slide forward on momentum before jerking to a stop, seatbelt cutting in again and stealing my breath.
Through the gap in Gabriel's arms, I saw the lead vehicle completely destroyed—flipped on its side in the middle of the road, a massive hole blown through the chassis, flames licking at the frame with crackling pops. Every window had shattered, glass scattered across the pavement glittering red in the firelight.
My stomach lurched, bile rising in my throat. There had been people in that car—at least three of Gabriel's men. Were they still alive? Or had they been blown to pieces?
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!!
Gunfire erupted, cutting off my spiraling thoughts.
Muzzle flashes lit up the tree line on both sides. Bullets hammered against our car in relentless drumbeat, the window beside me spiderwebbing with cracks. One bullet punched clean through, whistling past my head to embed itself in the seat back, leaving a smoking hole.
"Goddamn it," Gabriel swore, voice edged with cold fury. "Montague's people. More aggressive than I anticipated."
He released me, pulled a black handgun from his back holster. The motion was as natural as breathing, as though the weapon were part of his body. He checked the magazine efficiently, chambered a round, then lifted his head to assess the situation through the fractured window.
The doors burst open as Aiden and Quincy led the team out, using the vehicles as cover while they returned fire toward the tree line. Gunfire intensified immediately, muzzle flashes strobing in the darkness like deadly fireworks.
Gabriel turned to me, green eyes glinting with dangerous light in the shadows, like some nocturnal predator. His expression was terrifyingly calm, as though the bullets flying around us were nothing more than an inconvenient game.
"They're after you," he stated flatly.
Not a question. A fact.
My heart clenched. Cold sweat broke out across my palms, trickling down the creases and making my grip on the seat slippery.
One hundred million dollars.
To the killers hiding in those trees, I wasn't a person. I was a hundred-million-dollar prize. They'd do whatever it took to kill me and collect my corpse for the reward.
Gabriel held out his gun to me, black metal gleaming coldly in the dim light.
"You can hide," he said quietly, each word landing with perfect clarity despite the chaos. "Or you can—"
"There's no other choice," I interrupted, reaching out to take the weapon.
The metal was ice-cold and heavier than I expected, like gripping a bar of solid iron. I drew a steady breath, pressed the magazine release, and caught the full magazine as it dropped into my palm. Fifteen rounds, brass casings gleaming in the firelight. I shoved it back in with a click, checked the safety—off. Ready.
I adjusted my grip, right hand wrapped around the handle, index finger resting outside the trigger guard, left hand supporting from below to form a stable triangle.
When I looked up to meet Gabriel's eyes, I kept my voice as steady as I could manage. "I won't hide."
Gabriel studied me for several seconds. He didn't say anything more, just reached out and squeezed my shoulder once, the pressure brief but conveying silent encouragement.
"Stay close," he said, then pushed open his door.
I took a breath, tightened my grip on the gun, and shoved open my own door.
Night air hit me, thick with smoke that made me cough. Gunfire, explosions, screams—all of it blended into a hellish symphony. The air reeked of gunpowder, burning rubber, and something else I couldn't name but made my stomach turn—the smell of flesh seared by heat.
I'd barely leaned out when a bullet whipped past my shoulder and punched into the car door, leaving a jagged hole. The sound exploded right beside my ear, making my eardrum ring. I gasped and jerked back instinctively, heart hammering.
Close call.
But Gabriel was already out, using the vehicle as cover while he fired into the tree line. He moved like a ghost, every shot finding its mark. Shadows fell in the trees, accompanied by brief screams.
Can't retreat now.
I bit down hard, forced myself out of the car, crouched behind the rear bumper, used everything Gabriel had taught me to scan the environment.
Muzzle flashes peppered the tree line—at least twenty attackers. They were well-armed with heavy firepower, wearing black tactical gear and night-vision goggles, using trees and brush for cover as they poured rounds in our direction.
"Isabella, left side, ten o'clock!" Gabriel's voice cut through the noise, calm and clear.
I whipped my head around, saw a shadow break from behind a tree, raising a submachine gun. Bullets chewed up the ground, kicking up sparks and debris, several rounds hitting the tire behind me.
I didn't think. Raised the gun, aimed, pulled the trigger.
Bang!
Recoil jolted up my arm, numbing my wrist. The shot went wide, only hitting the tree trunk, sending splinters flying.
Damn it!
I steadied myself, adjusted, aimed again.
Bang!
The bullet caught him in the shoulder, blood spraying instantly. He screamed and staggered, submachine gun clattering to the ground.
I froze.
I'd actually hit someone. Actually fired. Actually watched the bullet tear through flesh, watched blood spray, watched him fall.
"Don't freeze—keep moving!" Gabriel's voice snapped me back, edged with urgency.
I clenched my jaw, forced myself not to dwell on it, raised the gun again.
Gabriel moved at the front, every shot precise and lethal. Bodies dropped in the tree line—some with headshots, dead instantly; others clutching chest wounds, twitching before going still. His face showed no emotion, eyes cold and focused, as though eliminating obstacles rather than ending lives.
I tried to mirror his calm. Observe. Aim. Fire.
Another attacker rushed from the right. I barely hesitated—just pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The bullet hit center mass. He jerked, stumbled, then collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, blood pooling beneath him.
My hands still shook, but not from fear—from adrenaline flooding my system. Each time I pulled the trigger, each time I watched a target fall, something inside me shifted and hardened.
Hesitation was disappearing.
Fear was fading.
In their place, something cold and resolute crystallized like ice forming in my chest.
Gabriel glanced back, something like approval and surprise flickering in his eyes. He didn't speak, but that look said everything—I was no longer the helpless person who needed protection. I was becoming part of this fight.
Another attacker closed in. I didn't think twice—aimed for his leg and fired.
Bang!
The bullet shattered his kneecap. He went down screaming, gun falling. Aiden was already there, finishing him with a single round.
"Good work," Aiden said with a brief nod, then spun back to the fight.
I drew another breath, raised the gun again.
Hesitation and fear were peeling away layer by layer, replaced by cold decisiveness. I stopped thinking I'm killing people and focused on protecting myself and Gabriel. Every time I pulled the trigger, my resolve strengthened—this was my choice, this was the reality I had to face.
If I didn't kill them, they would kill me.
If I didn't fight back, I'd be the one lying dead on the ground.
The firefight lasted less than ten minutes but felt like an eternity.
Gunfire from the tree line grew sporadic. Gabriel and his team operated with ruthless efficiency, methodically eliminating targets. I found my own rhythm, no longer panicking, no longer hesitating.
I stayed crouched, using the car for cover, firing toward the trees. Each round I made count. The magazine ran dry—I released it, let it drop, pulled the spare from my pocket, slammed it home, racked the slide, kept firing.
I'd practiced these motions countless times in Gabriel's training, but doing them here under fire felt completely different. In training, I'd faced stationary targets. Now I faced living people who moved and shot back.
Suddenly a bullet screamed toward me, too fast to fully process.
"Watch out!" Gabriel shouted.
But my reaction was faster.
I twisted sideways, the bullet grazing my arm and punching into the car frame. I could feel the heat of its passage, like a brand nearly searing my skin.
But I didn't scream. Didn't panic.
I spun, located the shooter, pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The bullet caught him in the chest. He dropped instantly.
I turned to find Gabriel staring at me, eyes holding something complex and a flicker of what might have been pride.
"Not bad," he said quietly, mouth quirking into the faintest smile.
I exhaled slowly, gripped the gun tighter, felt my heartbeat begin to steady.
The battle wound down.
Between Gabriel's tactical command and my unexpected contribution, the attackers were systematically eliminated. The tree line fell silent except for drifting smoke and scattered bodies.
I stood in the smoke-filled night, gun still in my trembling hands, but I stood straight.
My clothes were filthy with mud and blood, hair stuck to my face with sweat and grime, but I didn't care.
I just stared ahead at the bodies, at the people who'd died because I pulled the trigger.
Should I feel guilty? Should I feel afraid?
But I didn't.
I only felt a strange calm, like the ocean after a storm.
Gabriel came to stand beside me. He didn't speak, just stood there like a silent fortress.
I turned to look at him, mouth pulling into a tired but determined smile. "Let's go home."
Gabriel studied me for several seconds, then reached out to brush dirt from my cheek, the gesture gentle in stark contrast to the brutality moments before. His fingers were rough but warm, easing the tension coiled in my chest.
"Home," he repeated quietly, voice carrying the weight of a promise.
The convoy reformed and headed back toward the estate, leaving the carnage behind in the darkness.