The first bullets tore through the air where Althea and Eli had been standing a heartbeat earlier.
Both sisters moved on instinct—training older than memory taking over. They dove behind the sedan, bodies hitting wet asphalt and rolling as rounds smashed through the windows. Glass showered over them. The frame shuddered with every impact.
Inside the car, Runa screamed.
"RUNA! STAY DOWN!" Eli's voice cut through gunfire and rain.
The real shooters had the high ground. Street thugs as bait, professionals waiting in the dark. It should have been the perfect trap.
Should have.
But they'd miscalculated their targets.
Althea's mind worked even as bullets sparked off the pavement. She tracked muzzle flashes, angles, spacing. "Four on the rooftop, two o'clock. Three in the windows across the street. Two more in the alley behind us. We're in a killbox."
"Rear tire's gone. We're not driving out." Eli checked her weapon, voice steady despite the chaos. "And we can't stay here. They'll flank from both sides."
"Agreed." Althea lifted just enough to fire three sharp rounds at a second-story window. The shooter ducked back. "We break their formation."
"On it." Eli rolled to the back of the car and rose firing. Rooftop first—four silhouettes, one of them with a rifle heavy enough to punch straight through the engine block if he got a clean shot.
He was her priority.
Her first shot missed—rain, distance—but the next two forced him back from the edge.
"Reloading!" Eli dropped her empty magazine, slapping in a new one. Two seconds of vulnerability.
Althea covered her, firing measured, controlling shots. She wasn't trying to hit at range—she was forcing hesitation.
"Up!" Eli snapped a round into the chamber.
They moved like they had been shaped together—covering, advancing, compensating—a perfect inheritance of Roman Vale's brutal training.
A shooter in the alley stepped out for a clearer angle.
Althea saw the shift of shadow. She pivoted and fired four times—shots walking up the wall beside him, deliberate misses that screamed: I see you. Next one hits.
He vanished.
But time was their enemy. The shooters were adjusting, tightening patterns, turning the street into a no-escape grid.
"We can't hold here," Althea said, reloading. "We need to move."
"The alley left," Eli answered. "Narrow approach. They can't swarm us."
"Or it's a funnel they already control."
"Better odds than dying in the street."
Althea clenched her jaw. Eli was right.
"On three. Suppressing fire. Runa stays in the car until we clear the alley."
"One—"
A shotgun blast tore through the rear windshield, shredding what little glass remained.
"GO!"
They rose together, weapons barking in controlled bursts. Gunfire roared from both sides, muzzle flashes strobing the rain.
Althea laid down steady fire, forcing shooters to duck, clearing micro-paths for their retreat. Her feet found grip even on slick concrete.
Eli hit high-low patterns—rooftop, then windows—breaking aim, disrupting rhythm, keeping threats off-balance.
A bullet hissed past Althea's ear—close enough to feel the air tear. She didn't flinch.
They reached the alley, backs against brick, lungs burning but controlled.
"Runa!" Eli called. "When I say move, RUN. Don't stop. Don't look. Run to us!"
"Okay!" came the trembling voice from the car.
"RUNA—NOW!"
She burst from the sedan, terror lending her speed. She ran low, slipping but never falling.
Althea stepped out, emptying her magazine in a precise barrage—cover fire only. Every shooter who ducked was one who wasn't aiming at the fleeing girl.
Runa collided into Eli's arms. Eli pulled her into the alley's shelter.
Althea slammed her last magazine home. But as she turned back toward the street, her stomach dropped.
The shooters were advancing.
Not rushing. Advancing—coordinated, covering each other, tight formation. They'd realized their prey was outnumbered and running low on ammunition.
"Eli," Althea said quietly. "We have a problem."
One glance was enough.
"Damn it."
They were outgunned. Nearly out of ammo. Protecting a civilian. Facing professionals.
The math was fatal.
Eli's finger tightened on the trigger. She was ready to sell their lives as expensively as possible.
If they were dying, they'd take dozens with them.
Then—
Through rain and gunfire came the unmistakable roar of engines.
Multiple. Heavy. Fast.
Headlights exploded across both ends of the street, carving through darkness. Three black SUVs slammed into position like armored chess pieces.
Doors flew open.
Twelve men poured out—synchronized, tactical, disciplined. Assault gear. Reinforced vests. Heavy rifles.
Leading them was a broad-shouldered man with a granite face and the aura of controlled destruction.
Albert.
Fifty-something. Scarred from wars he never talked about. Loyal to Roman Vale to the grave. And right now, absolutely furious.
Even the trained shooters recognized overwhelming force when they saw it. Vale security didn't threaten—they annihilated. The SUVs were armored. The men were elite. And the Vales were one of the most powerful families in Los Angeles.
Killing two Vale daughters was one thing.
Starting a war with the family was suicide.
Weapons hit the ground. Hands went up.
Albert's team swept the street with surgical efficiency—securing shooters, kicking guns away, forming perimeter. Less than sixty seconds and the killbox was inverted.
Albert strode straight to Eli.
"Miss Eli. Are you injured?"
"No." Her voice was steady despite the adrenaline crash. "Miss Althea?"
"Fine." Althea lowered her weapon only after verifying every threat was neutralized.
"Davies—mechanic here in ten. Tow the sedan. Replacement vehicle on site immediately. Mills—call cleanup. Metro police hear a single shot and we failed our job."
He faced the sisters again, expression shifting to something almost human.
"Your father will have questions."
"Our father," Althea muttered, "is going to lose his mind."
"Likely," Albert agreed. "But you're alive to face it." A flicker of approval warmed his cold eyes. "You both fought well."
"The ambush was professional," Althea said. Her tone had already shifted to analysis. "Thugs as bait, shooters in overwatch. Someone planned this."
"We'll find out who," Albert said, calm and lethal. "We have prisoners. They'll talk."
Everyone talked eventually.
A sleek black sedan—a replacement already—glided to the curb.
"Let's go," Althea said.
Eli guided Runa inside. The girl was still trembling.
They were alive. That was enough.
Runa looked at the sisters—really looked—seeing not just protectors or captors, but warriors born from a world of unrelenting violence.
"You never panicked," she breathed. "Even when it was hopeless."
Eli met her gaze. "That's what being Vale means. We don't surrender. We don't break. And we protect what's ours."
"Always," Althea echoed, eyes scanning the road even as rain hammered the windshield.
The sedan slid into the night, taillights fading.
Behind them, Albert was already on the phone with Roman Vale.
The old man would be furious.
Someone had tried to kill his daughters.
The rain washed the street clean, but beneath the surface, currents shifted—dark, violent, inevitable.
The ambush had failed.
The message was unmistakable:
Someone wanted the Vale daughters dead.
And now?
Now the Vales would hunt.
And when the Vales hunted, mercy was never part of the equation.
Only justice.
Vale justice—indistinguishable from vengeance.