"Good. I have my answer, Father. Thank you for your response."
Andrei gave the impassive, even bulkier priest one last serious look, turned, and strode away.
York sighed softly and walked toward the small room on the right, where he had hidden a suitcase.
He'd long expected the Grizzly Gang to come knocking; they'd merely arrived later than anticipated—so late he'd nearly forgotten.
By the time Andrei vanished through the doorway, York had already pulled the suitcase from the cabinet beside the door. On it lay a SHAK-12 Heavy Assault Rifle and two magazines.
Beside them were two flashbangs and a hand grenade.
The SHAK-12 Heavy Assault Rifle: twenty-round capacity, chambered in 12.7 mm.
It can punch through light-armor plating and, within a hundred meters, standard reinforced-concrete walls.
Purpose-built for urban warfare and body-armor penetration—its nickname says it all: one shot, one kill.
Notably, it's a product of Grizzly, the same nation Andrei had just introduced himself from.
Recalling the specs, York snatched up the rifle, clipped one magazine to his cassock belt, and grabbed a flashbang—right now.
Outside.
Andrei's face shifted from calm to cold. He looked at the fifteen suit-clad men he'd brought, fixing first on the towering Gregory. "Gregory! Raze this church."
The equally hulking Gregory nodded, waved, and advanced in a two-handed pistol grip toward the doors.
Behind him, fifteen Grizzly elites drew pistols, rifles, or SMGs from their sides and moved, wary, toward the entrance.
They filed in one after another—no sign of their target.
Gregory pointed to the small rooms on either side and motioned.
"Search!"
At that instant, every burning candle guttered out, plunging the nave into total darkness.
Vision gone, Gregory tensed. "Careful—blacked out! Stay sharp!"
As the warning rang out, a flashbang rolled from the right-hand room with a clatter.
The sound drew every gun; fifteen weapons raked the direction of the noise, muzzles flaring in the dark.
Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!!
Outside, Andrei heard the volley but didn't even turn. He simply pulled a cigarette, lit it, and drew the smoke in with casual grace.
He exhaled a slow plume—then froze.
"No—wrong!!!"
Hearing nothing, Gregory felt a chill. Before he could shout a warning—
Blinding light erupted; Gregory and his men were flash-blinded.
Vision whiting out, ears ringing, Gregory hit the floor on instinct. "Down—!!!"
Yet the whispered "One mana spent" had already vanished. Mana coated York's eyes as he grinned, SHAK-12 leveled, and stepped from the room.
With mana-sharpened sight he fired on the nearest man first.
BOOM!!!
The 12.7×55 mm round ignored the pew and obliterated the target.
A head burst like a watermelon.
York walked on, squeezing the trigger again.
BOOM!!!
Another man flung backward—armor no match; a fist-sized hole in his chest.
BOOM!
A third crouched between pews—silent, dead—splinters flying.
BOOM!!!
BOOM!!
One by one they fell to the SHAK-12.
"Sound! Sound!!" Gregory yelled from between the pews. "Return fire—!!!"
But every time his men aimed at the noise, a 12.7 mm round greeted them first.
"Ёбтвоюмать—"
Cursing, Gregory stayed prone, pistol trained on the muzzle flashes.
The booming stopped—then cracked again.
BOOM!
Pain lanced through him; his right arm went numb. Blood soaked his shoulder.
"Ёбтвоюмать!" he hissed, riding the pain.
Footsteps halted beside him.
Vision clearing, Gregory saw a priest towering above, rifle in one hand, sketching a cross—Amen.
"Shit," he rasped, already knowing. "You monster."
"Thank you for the compliment."
York, face blank, squeezed the trigger.
BOOM!
Gregory's head and neck exploded; gore and fragments spattered—yet halted inches from York and rained away.
"Done."
Last man down, York swept the nave: carnage, unnameable debris, blood streaking the walls, pews shattered—ruin.
"Don't see that other guy."
Remembering Andrei, York tightened his grip and walked out.
All those furnishings, years of memories—gone. He was… annoyed.
Outside, the sight made him laugh despite himself.
Andrei stood in the open doorway, cigarette pinched between fingers, other hand in pocket, lost in brooding elegance.
"Hey—uh—Andrei?"
Startled at the wrong voice, Andrei turned.
York said nothing; the dead hear no confessions.
BOOM!
The SHAK-12 bucked.
Without armor, Andrei's torso simply vanished—remnants painting the entrance.
York sat on the steps, surveying the mess, and sighed at the unrecognizable corpse.
"Even demons aren't this arrogant."
He pictured the cleaners John Wick had once told him about.