Chapter 172
Isabella Sinclair had already grabbed Nico Esposito by his collar, using him as a human shield.
The bullet tore through his skull, his eyes glazing over instantly.
That unfortunate man never expected to die by his own ally’s hand.
Blood splattered across Isabella’s face, but she remained eerily composed as she raised her gun.
With a slight turn of her head, she murmured, “Now, it’s my turn.”
She had noticed earlier that their handguns jammed for a brief three seconds—a fatal flaw.
And that made this the perfect opportunity.
In the next heartbeat, chaos erupted around her as gunfire filled the air.
Isabella shoved the lifeless body aside and slipped into the dense jungle, her movements swift and precise, taking her shots one by one.
Her aim wasn’t as sharp as it used to be—three years without handling a weapon had left her rusty—but she compensated with strategy.
Luckily, there weren’t too many of them. Otherwise, things could have turned disastrous.
The men barely had time to react before they collapsed to the ground.
They had no idea this woman was so deadly, her precision chilling. Their last thought was of that ghostly figure, wiping blood from her face with unnerving calm.
It dawned on them too late why their leader had fallen victim to her, left broken and humiliated.
With the last body hitting the ground, Isabella turned toward the yacht docked at the pier, its silhouette shimmering under the moonlight.
Stepping over the fallen men, she rifled through their gear, collecting what she needed.
“Handguns, silver daggers, even explosives,” she muttered under her breath.
Just as she finished securing the supplies and was about to head back to assist Alexander, footsteps crunched nearby.
Instinctively, Isabella’s gun was in her hand, aimed at the approaching figure—a man with piercing blue eyes standing across from her.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he drawled. “Adrian Castillo, at your service. I have to say, I admire your work. Under different circumstances, I’d be chasing you like a starving wolf after prey.”
Adrian smirked, his blue eyes gleaming with predatory amusement.
He gave a slow clap, and with that, his men shoved forward a bloodied figure—Alexander!
Isabella’s gaze turned glacial, a storm of lethal rage simmering beneath her composed exterior.
Alexander’s white shirt was drenched in crimson, his face bruised and battered. He had clearly endured a beating to buy her time.
“You don’t… have to worry about me,” Alexander rasped, but a rag was shoved into his mouth before he could finish.
His eyes held steady resolve, locked onto Isabella without fear.
He had already accepted that he might not walk away from this. He had agreed to be the bait, fully aware of the danger.
The last thing he wanted was to drag her down with him.
His expression was fearless as he silently pleaded with her: Leave. Now.
The yacht was right there—her perfect chance to escape. Once aboard, she could sail away, and reinforcements would arrive soon.
It was the logical choice.
Adrian clicked his tongue, his voice dripping with amusement. “Ah, he’s quite fond of you, isn’t he? But, Ms. Sinclair, after the mess you’ve made—killing my men like that—I can’t just let it slide. Order must be maintained, after all. So, I’m afraid this is where your story ends.”
He adjusted the collar of his black trench coat, his fiery red curls giving him a theatrical air.
Then, Adrian pressed his gun lazily against Alexander’s temple.
“Ms. Sinclair, kindly drop your gun and take that pretty little dagger of yours. I expect you to cut your tendons. Both of them!” His smirk darkened with menace. “Or, I’ll make sure this man doesn’t leave here alive.”
Isabella’s brow furrowed, her mind racing—
