Once Brock had caught his breath, Owen checked his watch. "We've got to move. It's almost dawn. This villa's huge—we should split up. You find Curtis, I'll go after Channing…"
"No need," Brock cut in.
"Hm?" Owen turned to him, puzzled.
Brock nodded toward one side. "That guy over there—that was Curtis. You already killed him."
Owen followed the direction Brock indicated and finally recognized the man: the ferocious, scar-faced thug from earlier. The guy had fought viciously to the end—but apparently, that had been Curtis. Owen hadn't expected that.
"Well then, only Channing's left. Let's move."
The two each grabbed a new weapon and restocked on ammo before heading for the stairs, stepping over piles of corpses as they went.
The stairway was eerily quiet. Both had expected an ambush, but no one was there. They reached the third floor without incident. Since exiting the second floor, the entire villa seemed to have gone silent, as if all the Rogues had vanished.
Owen once again opted for the Remington M870. He had considered using an assault rifle, but decided against it—bullet impact points from rifles could easily reveal the shooter's skill level. In contrast, the scatter from a shotgun blast was harder to trace. Every shot covered a wide area, masking precision.
Brock took the lead, Owen watching the rear. Having once worked undercover in the Rogues, Brock was familiar with the layout and led them toward rooms most likely to house their target.
"Bang!" Brock kicked open a door. Both men immediately stepped to the sides to avoid any crossfire—but the room was empty.
This was the last room on the third floor. They had already cleared all the others, one by one, and every single one had been empty.
With the third floor clear, the only remaining possibility was the fourth floor. They continued upward.
As soon as they peeked their heads up the stairs, a storm of bullets rained down on them. Owen finally understood where all the gang members had gone—Channing had pulled everyone to his side. Clearly, the man was terrified of dying.
"Bang bang!"
The stairway guards were eliminated through a coordinated effort, their bodies tumbling down the steps. Owen stepped over them and charged up. The fourth floor was smaller—only about half the size of the third.
But they had barely taken a few steps before being ambushed again. It happened near a door. As per their usual method, they moved from room to room, but as they neared this one, Owen's instincts flared. Without a word, he tackled Brock, rolling them both to the side. The next second, a massive hole blew open in the door—the thunderous boom of a Remington M870 echoed through the hallway.
Shit!
Owen spat dust out of his mouth and stood up, hugging the wall, keeping his head low. Without peeking, he extended his shotgun around the corner and pulled the trigger. A second massive hole appeared in the door, and a body flew backward from the blast.
He hated ambushes like this.
They kept their guard up, carefully checking every blind corner. Brock spotted and eliminated a guy hiding behind a cabinet. While he reloaded, Owen kept watch; when Owen reloaded, Brock covered him. Their teamwork was seamless.
The closer they got to the end of the hall, the more resistance they encountered—proof enough that Channing Musk had to be in one of the rooms ahead. Dawn was almost upon them, and they picked up the pace.
Compared to mercenaries, these gangsters were ridiculously easy to deal with. They could be baited into revealing themselves with minimal effort.
Owen fired a random shot, deliberately exposing his location before ducking into cover. The enemy immediately leaned out to return fire, only to be picked off by Brock.
They plowed through the fourth floor, cutting down gangsters left and right.
Outside the suite door, Owen didn't kick it in. Instead, he grabbed one of the wounded thugs and shoved him forward. The moment the man touched the door, it erupted with gunfire, riddling the poor bastard with bullets and shredding the ornate wood into splinters.
Once the shooters inside assumed the outside threat had been neutralized, the gunfire ceased. That's when Owen and Brock opened fire in earnest. Brock unloaded his M4A1 into the door, the rounds punching clean through and into the bodies beyond. Owen fired repeatedly with his shotgun, blasting open holes in the door. Pellets rained into the room like metal hail.
Inside, the fools standing near the entrance were immediately torn apart, their bodies erupting in blood as they collapsed in piles. Those who had the sense to hide behind cover didn't fare much better—M4A1 rounds easily penetrated couches and furniture, cutting them down where they crouched.
Stepping over the threshold, Owen looked at the carnage and shook his head. "Idiots. Who told you a sofa could stop bullets?"
With the doorway cleared, they pushed deeper into the room. Huddled under a dining table, a terrified man was dragged out. His weapon was nowhere in sight—he clutched his head and screamed, "Don't kill me! Please! Don't kill me!"
Owen hated cowards like this. Judging by his clothes, he didn't look like a guard or a thug—more like some executive or junior boss. When Owen asked, even Brock didn't recognize him. But Owen didn't have time to care.
"Where's Channing Musk? Tell me where he is!"
"I… my father is in that room! Don't kill me~~~~" the man wailed, pointing to a tightly shut door.
Well, well. So the coward was Channing's son—a second-generation gangster. Owen smirked. Not only had he never planned on sparing him, but now that he knew the guy was Channing's son, it was even more out of the question.
Bang.
A single bullet punched through the man's heart. Owen holstered his pistol. The only mercy he gave was making it a clean death—a reward for answering the question.
Outside the final door:
"Come out! Channing, I know you're in there!"
Owen and Brock shouted loudly. The room was silent at first, then faint noises stirred inside.
Bang bang bang~~
A few wild shots burst through the door, leaving neat holes.
"Don't come in! Goddamn it, stay out!" shouted a voice from inside—hysterical, panicked, almost incoherent.
Owen and Brock exchanged a look and spat in unison.
Another spineless coward.
Like father, like son.
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