He Buried Me But I Painted My Own Resurrection novel Chapter 292

The freezing muzzle was practically pressed against Sienna's skin, a flash of sadistic pleasure crossing the scarred hitman's eyes.

His index finger tightened on the trigger.

In that hair-raising split second...

*Screech!*

A tire squeal sharper and more frantic than the thunder over the bridge ripped through the heavy sheet of rain.

The sound was like a shriek from the depths of hell, carrying a dark, ominous omen.

A pitch-black blur, like a lightning bolt unleashed from the abyss, broke through the rain curtain on a trajectory that defied physics.

It executed an impossible drift on the slick bridge, the massive rear of the car swinging like a sledgehammer to violently slam into one of the advancing assassins.

*Bang!*

The sickening thud was deafening in the rainy night.

The assassin didn't even have time to scream. His body folded like a broken ragdoll, thrown into the air by the sheer kinetic force.

He traced a gruesome arc over the bridge's guardrail, plunging headfirst into the churning black river below.

The splash was instantly swallowed by the storm.

This sudden chaos froze every single hitman in their tracks.

The scarred hitman's gun wavered, no longer aimed at Sienna's forehead.

The car door swung upward, unfolding like the wing of a dark bird.

A flawlessly polished, custom leather shoe stepped out first, planting firmly onto the waterlogged pavement without sending up a single splash.

It was as if even the water feared him.

An umbrella snapped open.

A tall, imposing figure stepped out of the vehicle with a casual, predatory grace.

He was dressed in an immaculate, bespoke suit, untouched by the chaos around him.

In an instant, the violent storm seemed to take on a life of its own, actively avoiding him, not daring to dampen him in the slightest.

He held a burning cigar between his fingers. The soft crackle of the tobacco burning was almost drowned out by the rain, yet distinct.

The glowing red ember flickered in the dark, illuminating his handsome, dangerously wicked face.

It was Cillian Blackwood.

"The Night Ravens?" he spoke.

His voice wasn't loud, laced with a lazy amusement, yet it pierced the eardrums of every hitman present like a poisoned needle.

The scarred man's hand trembled.

The other assassins stiffened collectively.

"When did you all sink so low?"

He took a slow drag of his cigar. The smoke slipped past his lips, rising into the rain before being torn away by the storm.

"Taking jobs to bully little girls now?"

His tone was conversational, relaxed even, but it sent a bone-chilling dread through everyone present.

It was colder than the torrential rain, more biting than the river below.

That absolute, undisguised contempt made the scarred man's face drain of color.

The gun in his hand shook violently, the barrel swaying, unable to lock onto any target.

His pupils constricted in absolute terror.

He forced the words out of his hoarse throat: "Cillian... Cillian Blackwood?"

His Adam's apple bobbed frantically.

"What... what are you doing here?"

In the criminal underworld they belonged to, that name was a death sentence.

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