Chapter 400 United We Slay
The men surged forward in a single, violent wave.
Muscles coiled and veins bulged as fists swung toward Catherine and Alexander. Alexander, holding Yosef securely against his chest, spoke in a calm, almost bored tone. "Eyes closed."
"Got it! Alexander, you better protect Catherine, or I swear I'll never forgive you!"
Alexander's mouth curved into a faint smile. The kid was trembling so hard he could barely breathe, yet still found the nerve to threaten him.
Back to back with Alexander, Catherine's lips curled in a teasing smirk. "You've got the kid in your arms. Want me to give you a head start?"
"Is that an insult? Fine—let's make it interesting. Whoever drops more of them wins. Loser owes the winner one favor. Deal?"
Catherine's fist slammed into the chest of the first man to reach her. "Deal. But you're going to lose."
Alexander pivoted, dodging a punch while kicking his attacker hard enough to send him sprawling. "My fiancée is competitive," he said lightly.
"Can't help it. Winning is the only option," Catherine replied, her voice sharp with intent.
In her world, survival had only one rule—win.
The killers were skilled, no doubt expensive to hire. Unfortunately for them, they were facing Alexander and Catherine. On the dark web, leaders of top-tier assassin syndicates didn't earn their thrones through reputation alone—they were predators in their own right.
Catherine drew the slim blade hidden in her boot. Steel flashed, blood followed, and three bodies hit the floor in quick succession.
At the same moment, Alexander freed both hands by letting Yosef cling to his own shirt, dispatching his opponents until the number of bodies at his feet matched hers. He clapped his hands once and grinned at her. "Call it a tie."
Catherine's gaze slid to the trembling customs officer. "Not yet. If we count him, I win."
The man's face drained of color. These two had just dismantled a team worth millions in contract fees. "No, no… don't kill me! I had nothing to do with this!"
"Relax," Catherine said coldly. "I don't kill civilians. Only killers die by my hand."
The assassins had blood on their hands—too much to count. Removing them was just cleaning up the filth. The customs officer, on the other hand, was guilty of extortion and attempted theft; prison would suit him fine.
She knocked him out with a single blow and tossed him toward Jared, who had just burst in with a chainsaw still humming in his grip. "Yours. Get the answers we need."
"You got it, Ms. Windsor. We're professionals."
Twenty minutes later, the man was on his knees, clutching the police officer's leg, sobbing as he poured out every crime he'd ever committed, pleading to be taken away.
Under the quiet coaxing of Mars and Jared, his resolve had crumbled to dust.
"It was me! I called the cops! It's too dangerous out here—please, put me in a cell! I'm a fraud, not even a real customs officer! Arrest me before they get to me!"
The officers traded baffled glances; criminals almost never pleaded to be cuffed.
Inside the warehouse, Simon led Catherine in. The Quinn Couture warehouse manager, Simon, jogged over. "Ms. Windsor, some kids wandered in earlier. One even hid inside a fabric crate. I locked them in a room."
The warehouse was vast, sectioned into distinct areas.
"Any issues with that batch of fabric?" Catherine asked.
"No. We re-tested it using our own system—the Galactic Aurora Collective chip. Accuracy is over ninety-eight percent. There's no way it's contaminated. It came straight from our haute couture facility, nowhere near Zafrica, and went through full sterilization."
Simon added, "We even removed every trace of foreign plants and aquatic organisms from the crate exterior. There's no chance of contamination."
His tone turned razor-sharp. "And they wanted us to hand over the factory—and you—with it? Ridiculous."
At the storage room door, Simon gestured toward it. "These kids aren't normal. What kind of kid hangs around a dock?"
Yosef frowned. "Alexander, what if they're bad guys and they ruin Catherine's fabric?"
"Don't worry. I'll handle it."
He unlocked the door. Inside, massive crates were stacked high, full of fabric and embroidery materials. On top of one crate sat a barefoot boy, swinging his legs.
"Finally! Let us out!"
Simon planted his hands on his hips. "How did you get in here? What are you up to?"
"We wandered in by accident. If you don't let us out, we'll call the cops and tell them you're traffickers who kidnapped us!"
"You don't want that, do you?"
Simon's eyes narrowed. They weren't acting like ordinary kids.
Catherine frowned. "The warehouse and crates have cameras. We'll know if you were kidnapped or if you broke in yourselves."
A boy perched on another crate held up two smashed surveillance cameras. "Sorry. We took care of those."
Simon's jaw tightened. "Who sent you?"
"Doesn't matter. Just let us go."
Catherine tilted her head, smiling without warmth. "Without cameras, what's your plan for keeping yourselves safe?"
The boy waved a satellite phone. "Signal-proof. Even if you jam it, I can still call the police."
Simon stared. These weren't kids—they were little devils.
Catherine's voice dropped to a dangerous calm. "Go ahead. If you want to play dangerous games, you'd better be ready to face grown-up consequences."
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