They staked out the villa for three whole days, mapping every inch of D's routine.
He showered before 2AM, took his medication around 3:30, and slept soon after. During that time, the guard team rotated—rear sentry would pull out, front post would march seventy meters through forested path. In that stretch, there was a natural blind spot: a sliver of doubled-up camera coverage, the only real opening.
"Target is entering sleep phase," John whispered, pressed against a tree on the cliff's edge, one hand steadying binoculars, the other gripping the radio. "Confirming: west sentry team's pulling back."
"Copy," Vulture replied, prone behind the GM6 Lynx sniper, barrel set on a slab of stone. Thermal scope locked onto the patrol. "Wind's 0.8, humidity high. I'll adjust for drift."
"Don't screw it up," Fox's voice crackled in his ear. "I want to walk in, not be dragged in as a corpse."
John let out a dry chuckle. "Relax, you're not dying today—you're living proof curses walk the earth."
3:36AM. Go-time.
Outside the wall, two sentries started down the forest path. Body armor, SCARs slung low, stride loose—they hadn't clocked a thing.
"Go," Fox said quietly.
"First target locked." Vulture exhaled, squeezed the trigger—
BANG!
The first .50 caliber tungsten round sliced the night, punching through the sentry's vest. He went down with no warning, body crashing into the undergrowth.
"Second's turning," John muttered, tracking with the scope. "Don't wait for him to yell."
"Roger." Vulture's tone was ice. "Next round."
BANG—
The second guard's helmet flew off. He hit the ground before he could even grip his gun.
At the same time, John slipped out from a fake garden statue in the back, his FNX-45 silenced, dropping another guard mid-way through unzipping his fly. No noise. John snatched the keycard off his belt, slipped into the hallway, and swept two more mercs on post.
Pop, pop. Clean shots.
Fox moved up, dispatching the kitchen sentry with a knife, then flicking the breaker—cutting power to the rear kitchen. The west wing plunged into shadow. He signaled with two fingers, tossed a flashbang from the pantry into the dining room—
THUD! Blinding white. Three mercs went down screaming, clutching their eyes.
Fox was in before they could recover, his pistol cold and precise—kneecaps, shoulders, never missing the midline. The mercs dropped like marionettes with their strings cut.
Only now did the main alarm finally blare.
"They've triggered the central," John reported, calm as ever. "Three left, second floor."
"Mine," Fox replied, swiping blood from his face, swapping mags, and stepping through the central corridor, boots smearing blood into the carpet.
Two guards showed at the top of the stairs—
BANG—! Vulture dropped one from the hill. Fox met the other halfway, blade to throat, ending it with a quiet gurgle.
Only one guard remained, planted by the last door, blasting blind with a shotgun—he hadn't even realized who was coming through the smoke.
Fox burst from the haze, tackled him hard, and jammed the SCAR into the man's chest, just above the vest line. Two shots, and it was over.
No one left standing.
Fox tore out his earpiece and stood in front of the heavy black walnut door.
He knew D was behind it.
He gave the blood, the holes in the walls, the cuts and burns he could barely feel anymore, one long look. Then drew a loose round from his belt, loaded the SCAR's underbarrel grenade:
"Say hello to my little friend."
The blast tore the door in two; the bodyguard behind it died instantly, blown across the floor.
Gunfire erupted from the study all the way to the master bedroom. Both men took hits.
Brass littered the floor, shattered porcelain scattered everywhere, the glass liquor cabinet was a honeycomb ruin. Cognac trickled between the boards.
Fox crouched behind a table, SCAR-H down to its last round. Ears ringing, blood and sweat stinging his jaw.
Across the room, D was hunched behind a barricade, blood at the corner of his mouth, rifle edge peeking around the table—both men knowing whoever moved first would be the last.
They emptied their guns, and the silence afterward was absolute.
Heavy metal hit the floor—Fox tossed his rifle aside, stood, eyes like blades.
"No more guns. Let's finish this like men."
D licked his lips, dropped his own FN FAL, grinned through bloody teeth. "Thought you'd never ask."
He lunged, wild and desperate. Fox pivoted, left foot back, drew his old M1911 from an appendix holster—jet black, worn smooth as a prayer bead.
BANG! The bullet tore through D's foot.
He crashed forward, tried to rise—second shot smashed his right humerus, nearly tearing the arm off.
Third shot punched through his left shoulder.
D hit the floor like a broken snake, writhing, too much pain for words.
Fox stood a moment, breathing hard, surveying the room—no enemies, no backup, just him.
He holstered the gun, walked over, cold and slow, like he was evaluating a failed specimen.
D was still breathing, eyes blazing with hate.
Fox crouched, flicked open a stiletto. The "click" of the blade was sharp and final.
No speeches—he plunged it straight into D's upper thigh, right on the femoral artery.
D's howl was high and thin, forehead bulging with veins, his voice tearing open:
"I made you! Do you even know what you'll become when I'm dead? You're not your own man—you're my creation!"
Fox looked down at him, voice flat as dust.
"I don't need to imagine."
He pulled the knife free, blood gushing, spattering his shoes. He cleaned the blade on D's collar, steady as if washing up after dinner.
When it was done, Fox finally glanced at himself—shirt shredded, pants streaked with mud and blood, a burn on his left shoulder sticking to the fabric, the look of a man who'd crawled out of an explosion.
He glanced at the wardrobe on the other side of the room.
He opened it—D's "suits of armor" lined up: bespoke suits, cufflinks, crisp shirts, hand-made shoes, even ties folded to perfection.
Fox took out a first aid kit, slathered ointment on the burns, wrapped gauze tight, then grabbed a black suit and ballistic vest, stood in front of the mirror. Shirt, tie, jacket—like a man getting ready for a funeral.
He was about to swap out his ruined combat pants when he felt eyes on his back.
He turned.
D was lying in his own blood, head tilted, staring up like a dying snake. "Didn't think I'd actually look good in your suit."
The look in his eyes said: You can wear my clothes, but you'll never be me.
Fox met his gaze, sighed.
"I'm changing pants. Give me some privacy."
BANG!
The shot echoed through the villa. D's head burst in a silent red bloom.
A few minutes later, a man in a clean black suit, lowpoly fox mask on his face, stepped out of the burning villa. The dawn lit his silhouette as the house exploded behind him, red and white tie flicking upward in the blast's wind—