My Milf Conqueror System novel Chapter 170

Chapter 170: Three bullets

[Jake’s POV]

Three bullets. Six men.

In the movies, the hero always has a spare magazine hidden in an ankle holster, or a sudden burst of superhuman speed that lets him dodge automatic gunfire. But we weren’t in a movie. We were in a concrete box fifty feet below a mansion full of billionaires, and the air smelled like cordite, copper, and vaporized dust.

Darius didn’t look at his gun. He didn’t look at me. His eyes were locked on the doorway, tracking the shifting shadows of the tactical team stacking up in the hall.

"When I move," Darius said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that barely carried over the ringing in my ears, "you go low. Take the knees. I will take the eyes."

"And the scarred guy?" I asked, wiping a smear of blood from my cheek where the bullet had grazed my shoulder.

"If he gets past me, he’s yours."

I nodded. I didn’t have a weapon, but the System was already flooding my veins with a cold, hyper-focused clarity. The adrenaline wasn’t making me shake; it was slowing the world down. I could hear the heavy, synchronized breathing of the men in the hall. I could hear the faint, terrified whimpers coming from Helena Strauss as she curled into a ball beneath the server racks, clutching the black USB drive to her chest.

Proof first.

We had the proof. Now we had to survive long enough to use it.

"Ready?" Darius asked.

"No," I said. "Go."

Darius didn’t step out into the doorway. He threw himself across the opening in a low, horizontal dive.

The hallway erupted in a deafening roar of suppressed automatic fire. Bullets chewed through the concrete where Darius had been standing a fraction of a second earlier, filling the air with a blinding cloud of pulverized stone.

While he was in mid-air, Darius fired twice.

Crack. Crack.

Two guards dropped, their ballistic visors shattering inward.

He hit the ground rolling, coming up on one knee, and fired his third and final shot. He didn’t aim for a man. He aimed for the ceiling.

The bullet struck the heavy, industrial fire-suppression pipe running along the top of the corridor. The pressurized line ruptured with a catastrophic hiss, instantly flooding the narrow hallway with a blinding, thick cloud of white chemical foam and freezing water.

The remaining four guards shouted in confusion, their laser sights cutting wildly through the dense white fog.

"Now!" Darius roared.

I didn’t hesitate. I launched myself through the doorway, diving low into the freezing, blinding mist.

[Ding!]

[Combat Mastery Activated.]

[Perception enhanced. Threat trajectories mapped.]

Faint red outlines flickered in my vision, cutting through the chemical foam. I saw the legs of the nearest guard shifting as he tried to backpedal.

I hit him like a freight train.

I drove my shoulder directly into his kneecap. The joint snapped with a sickening pop. The man screamed, his rifle firing wildly into the ceiling as he went down. I didn’t stop moving. I used his falling momentum to pull myself up, grabbing the barrel of his rifle and ripping it from his grip.

I spun, swinging the heavy stock of the weapon like a baseball bat. It connected with the side of the second guard’s helmet with a hollow, ringing thud. The man’s head snapped to the side, and he collapsed into the foam without a sound.

Two left.

A shadow lunged at me through the mist.

It was the scarred leader. He had dropped his rifle and drawn a serrated combat knife, moving with a terrifying, fluid grace that the other guards lacked. He didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate. He just drove the blade straight toward my throat.

I dropped the rifle and twisted hard to the left. The blade sliced through the lapel of my tuxedo, missing my jugular by a fraction of an inch.

Before he could retract his arm, I grabbed his wrist with both hands, twisting my hips and using his own forward momentum to throw him over my shoulder. He hit the concrete floor hard, but he didn’t let go of the knife. He rolled backward, kicking my legs out from under me.

I hit the ground, the breath exploding from my lungs.

The scarred man was on top of me in an instant, his knee pinning my chest, the knife plunging down toward my eye.

I caught his forearm with both hands, my muscles screaming in protest as I fought to keep the serrated edge away from my face. The man was incredibly strong, his dead eyes locked onto mine, his weight pressing down with lethal intent.

"You’re out of your depth, suit," the scarred man hissed, his breath smelling of stale coffee and tobacco.

"I’ve been out of my depth for years," I grunted, my arms trembling under the strain.

[Ding!]

[Adrenaline Surge Deployed.]

[Strength +20% for 10 seconds.]

A sudden, violent burst of heat exploded in my chest. The trembling in my arms stopped. I didn’t just hold the knife back; I pushed it up.

The scarred man’s eyes widened in shock as I forced his arm backward. I let go with my left hand, drove my palm upward, and smashed the heel of my hand directly into the bridge of his nose.

His head snapped back. His grip on the knife faltered.

I bucked my hips, throwing him off me, and scrambled to my feet. He tried to rise, shaking his head to clear the stun, but Darius materialized from the white fog like a nightmare.

Darius didn’t use a gun. He used his boot.

He kicked the scarred man squarely in the chest, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the concrete wall. The man slumped forward, unconscious before he even hit the floor.

Silence fell over the hallway, broken only by the hiss of the ruptured fire pipe and the heavy, ragged sound of my own breathing.

I stood in the center of the corridor, soaked in freezing water and chemical foam, my tuxedo ruined, my knuckles bleeding. I looked down at the unconscious bodies of the elite security team.

"Clear," Darius said, his voice perfectly calm. He bent down, picked up one of the dropped assault rifles, checked the magazine, and slung it over his shoulder. He picked up a second one and tossed it to me.

I caught it, the cold metal grounding me.

"Helena!" I called out, turning back toward the vault.

Helena Strauss emerged from the doorway, clutching the USB drive to her chest. She looked at the bodies littering the hallway, her face pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and awe.

"You... you killed them," she whispered.

"They’re breathing," Darius corrected, stepping past her to check the corridor ahead. "For now. But they won’t be asleep forever, and whoever sent them is going to send more. We need to move."

"Comms are still down," I said, tapping my earpiece. "The lead lining in the walls. We need to get higher up. We need to reconnect with Nia and Claire."

"The main stairs are compromised," Helena said, her voice shaking. "If they locked down the estate, they’ll have a perimeter team waiting at the top of the basement stairwell. It’s a fatal chokepoint."

I closed my eyes, forcing my mind to race through the blueprints we had studied in the operations room. I thought about Cassandra, sitting in her oversized grey sweater, tracing lines on a piece of paper because she didn’t trust the digital scans.

"The old floor plan has a service corridor behind the western wall. It connects to the private chapel."

"The chapel," I said, opening my eyes. I looked at Helena. "There’s a service corridor behind the western wall of the archive. It leads up to the private chapel."

Helena stared at me, genuinely shocked. "How do you know about the smuggler’s run? That corridor was sealed off fifty years ago."

"I have a very smart friend," I said. "Is it still accessible?"

"Yes," Helena said, nodding quickly. "The door is hidden behind the tapestry racks in the archive. But it’s dark, and the stairs are steep."

"Lead the way," I ordered.

We moved fast. We left the ruined hallway and slipped back into the restoration archive. The massive room was a labyrinth of climate-controlled art racks, covered statues, and antique furniture wrapped in plastic.

As we moved deeper into the archive, my eyes caught something on the floor.

I stopped, raising my hand to halt Darius and Helena.

"What is it?" Darius whispered, his rifle raised.

I knelt down, touching the polished hardwood floor. There, barely visible in the dim light, was a single, smeared drop of blood.

I looked ahead. A few feet away, near the edge of a massive, plastic-wrapped painting, was another drop. And then a bloody handprint smeared against the plastic sheeting.

"Sofia," I breathed.

"She went this way," Darius said, his eyes tracking the faint trail of blood leading toward the back wall of the archive.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify