"Stay here," Rhett says.
They crouch behind a large, abundant green willow tree, nestled among blooming shrubs by the serene emerald lake.
The misty moon glows overhead, shrouded in lustrous, woolly clouds that drift across the sombre, dark blue sky. Wild shrubs and pearly flowers bloom beneath the weeping shadows of the verdant willow.
They had nearly made it to the faithful country church.
But golden Victorian lanterns flicker all around the church's perimeter, revealing the silhouettes of armed men pacing the compound.
"No," Neva whispers, alarmed, clutching Rhett's arm tightly.
He tears his gaze from the arena and looks at her—flurried, fatigued, seated beside him on the cold ground.
"I'll be back before you even realise it," he assures her, gently caressing her warm, reddened cheek.
She shakes her head and draws his hand away, holding it close to her chest. "You can just shoot them from here."
"Their count is high. I don't have a spare magazine," he says calmly.
"Isn't it enough? You even got the gun from the man you shot," she pleads, voice trembling, eyes blurred with tears. The idea of Rhett facing an entire troop alone chills her.
"It'll make noise. And I for the world wouldn't risk you being in danger," he replies, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
The rifle isn't silenced—if he fires, they'll swarm them. Worse, there's barely any ammo left in the intruder's weapon.
"Either way, I have to go. Take cover behind the tree." He hands her a pistol.
She frowns, loathing the eerie feeling—the weight of the weapon in her hand.
"Remember everything I've taught you. You've got great aim. Use it if you need to." He folds her hands around the grip.
"You know I won't be able to," she whimpers, tears spilling down her cheeks.
"You won't need to. But if—if there's even a one percent chance—I believe in you. Do you believe in me?"
She nods. "I do. But you need it more."
"I've got this savage," he says, patting the rifle. "It's more than enough."
"Be safe."
"I will."
Without another word, he slithers away into the night.
Her eyes trail his filmy silhouette, ghosting through the dark trees. Then he vanishes.
She leans back against the willow, head resting on the rugged trunk, letting the tears fall.
She can only pray—pray with a fast thudding heart, that God will keep him safe.
An armed man in black, a skull cap on his head, surveys the area.
Rhett looms behind him, silent. The rifle slung over his shoulder.
He leans in and whistles softly into the man's ear. The man flinches—and in that breath, Rhett snaps his neck.
The sickening snap of vertebrae coils the air—soft, vile, final.
Catching the body before it hits the ground, Rhett drags it into the bushes.
Then he hunts. In the shadowy penumbra, he strikes like a phantom. An arm clamps over a mouth, and a dagger glints—slashing throats, blood blooming.
His assassinations are flawless.
No hesitation. No mercy.
This is not Rhett, but Agent Czar.
And apocalypse flows through his veins.
One by one, the brutes disappear. A man notices the vanishing squad. Rhett breaks his neck without a word.
He swaps his rifle for one with a silencer, taken from a fallen man. Tilting his head, he wonders—why ambush this countryside?
Another man, cautious, steps into the dark, his gun raised.
Rhett presses the silencer to his forehead.
The man blinks.
Then his skull bursts, and blood spatters Rhett's face.
He closes his eyes. Just for a moment.
The corpse thuds to the ground.
"Who's there?" a voice calls.
Rhett steps out of the shadows.
The lantern light chisels gold over his blood-soaked form.
The man who spoke gapes in horror.
Before he can aim, Rhett blows his head apart.
Then the thundering footsteps of a battalion.
Rhett growls and switches the rifle to full-auto.
The bullets tear through skulls.
Bodies drop like broken puppets. Blood pools. Skulls bursts beyond recognition.
He revels in precision, the art of bullets crowning his kills.
When all is silent, he bolts back toward the willow, pushing through the pricking shrubs.
"Angel?" he whispers.
Neva lifts her tear-wet face from her hands.
He touches her shoulder. "It's fine. I'm here."
She sobs at the sight of him. "Are you hurt?"
He shakes his head and wraps her in his arms. She clings to him, soaking his chest with tears.
"Shh... I'm fine. Not a scratch." He strokes her hair and wipes her tears.
"Are you alright?"
She nods and pulls out a soft savanna-pink scarf, brushing the blood from his chin.
He smiles at her gesture. "Let's go."
He picks up the pistol she dropped and holsters it.
As she grabs the bag, he lifts her in his arms.
She gasps. "You shouldn't carry me."
He strides forward. "I don't want you seeing the carnage."
She glances at the rifle he left. "But the gun—"
"I don't need it."
He quickens his pace to the church's rear.
He gently sets her down and brushes away the flowering creepers.
A grey outline appears.
"A secret door?" Neva asks.
"Yeah. But it's locked." He thumps it. "Step aside, Angel."
She obeys. He lunges against the door and breaks it open with a shoulder thrust.
Neva breathes in awe, eyes wide.
He shrugs. "Just a rusty door."
Then a loud thunder of firing slices the quiet.
A bullet flies from inside.
Neva's heart drops.
Rhett's instincts kick in. He dodges just in time, the shot grazing past his ear.
Clicking of footsteps echo from within. The shooter hides in the darkness.
Rhett storms in, shotgun barrel in hand, pistol aimed at a trembling middle-aged man. Behind him, terrified citizens shrink away.
"We won't harm you," Rhett says.
The man protests. "Kill them! They're murderers!"
"I said we mean no harm. I live here—with my wife."
"Don't trust them!" the man shouts.
Rhett presses the muzzle harder. "Don't waste our time."
"No—! Let them in!" another voice cuts in.
A tall young man appears—Jayden.
"I know him. We're neighbours," he says.
Another man nods. "He is."
"Traitors! Kill them!" the old man rages.
Weapons rise. Over twenty villagers arm themselves—guns, blades, bows.
They're terrified. Traumatized.
"God damn it!" Rhett curses.
His eyes find Neva, pale and in pain, her hands clutching her belly.
"Angel!" He shoves the man aside and runs to her.
Jayden gasps and rushes to them. "Oh Lord."
She curls into Rhett's arms, groaning in agony.
Jayden turns to the villagers. "Do you not see the pregnant lady? Let them in!"
The crowd stares. Their rage softens.
"They'll be tolerated," the severe man concedes.
He turns and walks down the stairs, disapearing into the inked corridor.
"Bring her in," Jayden urges.
"Need help?" asks Jason.
"No," Rhett says flatly.
Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he lifts Neva. She buries her face in his chest, trembling.
He carefully descends the stairs into the dark.
He's afraid. Not of them—but of her pain.
If it worsens, he won't be able to reach a hospital.
The brothers glance at each other. They and the few remaining men make sure the hidden door is sealed tight behind them.