Dark Revenge Of An Unwanted Wife: The Twins Are Not Yours!

Chapter 411: Two Teams IV

Chapter 411: Two Teams IV

Ewan had always wondered if he would be in this position again—before an onslaught of bullets, heart

hammering, adrenaline surging—after taking his place in his family’s company.

For years, he had convinced himself that boardroom negotiations, corporate deals, and endless paperwork had

replaced the days of ducking fire and leading missions. But sthings never left a man.

The thought had haunted him often during quiet nights, the question whispering: what if it happens again? What

if you find yourself before the barrel of a gun, and your team isn’t there to cover you? What if you're alone?

Now, with walls echoing with gunfire and shouts, with plaster chipping above his head from a spray of bullets,

that question was no longer hypothetical.

And strangely—he smiled.

Because as soon as the trigger pulled, as soon as danger pressed in on all sides, his body remembered. His

training calive in him like muscle memory. His hands and legs moved as if they had been waiting, itching for

this exact moment.

Everything synced: his breath, his eyes, the rhythm of his heart. He moved in one accord, in one flow, like a

current of water rushing through cracks in stone.

The first man cfrom the left, bursting forward, gun raised. Ewan didn’t even blink. His pistol lifted, barked

once, and the man crumpled, his weapon clattering against the tiles.

But Ewan didn’t stay in one place, not with the incoming angry men. He darted forward, boots striking hard

against the floor, then vaulted onto the wall in a smooth arc. His legs found grip where no normal man should

have found footing, and he kicked off, twisting his body midair.

Bullets sprayed beneath him, but his pistol spoke more than twice before he landed, each shot finding its mark in

the men below. Four bodies hit the ground, their fighting objects limp by their sides, before he even touched

down.

The moment his boots kissed the floor, he was already rolling, already firing backward at the enemies chasing

him from behind. His movements were so fluid it almost looked choreographed, like he had rehearsed every

step.

He crouched as bullets flew past, firing back, sparks flashing from metal scraping against concrete. He ducked

beneath a swinging baton, drove his shoulder into the assailant’s chest, and fired point-blank before the man

could even gasp. He didn’t linger, didn’t gloat. Every move was transition into the next, a dancer in a ballet of

death.

He pushed deeper into the hallway, every step measured, every breath controlled. Door by door, he moved,

shoulder against wood, gun raised. He kicked one open thereafter and froze for a fraction of a second.

Inside were things that made his stomach twist—obscene scenes, naked abused women forced into corners,

eyes wide with terror, the criminals using them like shields.

His finger tensed on the trigger, instinct screaming at him to shoot, but discipline held him back. He couldn't risk

hitting innocents.

The nearest thug smirked, thinking Ewan was hesitating in fear. He didn’t realize Ewan was waiting for the

perfect moment.

And when it came—when the criminals finally turned their focus away from him for a second, in order to leave

the bed to accost him, thereby leaving the women unshielded—Ewan acted immediately. His pistol spat fire,

clean and precise. Three shots. Three men down. He lowered his gun slowly, letting the ringing silence fill the

room.

The women blinked at him, trembling. One of them whimpered. Ewan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say a word.

He turned, leaving the door wide open, a silent invitation for them to run. To escape.

But even if they didn’t, the state security service would soon invade the building. Aiden had dropped a tip to

them, a late one, intentionally.

Ewan, meanwhile, repeated this through the rooms. Kick. Enter. Judge. Shoot. Leave. Always moving, always

flowing. Srooms stank of smoke and sweat. Others were dens of gambling or drugs. Each time, he found

criminals, and each time, he cut them down with the merciless precision of a man trained for this exact

nightmare.

Blood pooled on the floorboards, shadows stretched long under the flickering bulbs, and still he pressed forward,

one door after another, one body after another.

By the the reached the stairs to the last floor, his breathing was heavier, but his focus sharper. He climbed

step by step, his pistol steady, eyes scanning every corner.

The second floor greeted him with silence—a silence he didn’t trust. He walked slowly, almost crouched, the

muzzle of his pistol leading the way. And then...

A figure stood at the end of the corridor, just outside a heavy door. A girl. She couldn't have been more than

twenty, her hair tied back messily, a rifle steady in her hands.

She was pale under the hallway’s dim light, but her eyes were hard, defiant. She raised her gun, and Ewan froze.

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Something about her stopped him cold. She reminded him of Heronica. The angle of her chin, the stubborn line

of her mouth, even the way her hands shook but held steady anyway.

For a heartbeat, he hesitated.

And that hesitation cost him.

The crack of a gunshot ripped through the corridor, and searing pain tore into his thigh. He groaned, staggering

back, hitting the wall with a grunt, settling behind it, just close to the stairs. His pistol nearly slipped from his

hand, but he gritted his teeth and held on.

The girl kept shooting, each round tearing into the walls around him. From the sound and rhythm, he knew she

was getting closer, step by step.

"Are you scared to fight, old man?" she shouted, voice shaking but loud. "Cout, sot!"

Him? A sot?

Despite the burning pain in his leg, Ewan almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because of the

absurdity of it—here he was, bleeding, hunted, cornered, and still his pride found the insult ridiculous.

He touched the wound at his thigh, grimacing. The pad he'd worn had taken the worst of it, but blood still seeped

through. A surface wound, maybe, but no less painful.

His eyes flicked to his pack. Only one cartridge left.

"One bullet," he muttered under his breath. "Better be worth it."

He inhaled slowly, counting seconds, mind calculating, heart steadying. He needed her to take position—

somewhere predictable, somewhere he could end it with precision.

And then he saw it: the broken glass scattered on the floor, catching faint light, reflecting her shadow as she

stepped closer. Her boots crunched against it, revealing her exact spot without her realizing.

Perfect.

He steadied his hand, lined up the shot, and fired—not at her chest, not at her head, but at her right leg; mercy

prevailing.Chapter 412: Two Teams V.

Chapter 412: Two Teams V

Ewan left the bleeding girl where she writhed on the floor, clutching at her wounded leg, her defiance still

smoldering in her glare even through the pain. He ignored her spit, ignored her muttered curses, and pressed his

ear to the heavy door she had been guarding.

Silence.

He tilted his head, listening harder. No shuffling. No voices. Nothing that betrayed what lay behind the barrier.

His jaw tightened. The silence could mean one of two things: the room was empty, or someone inside was

waiting—poised, breath held, gun raised.

"Not even going to say anything when your life’s already hanging by a thread?" he muttered, half to the girl.

He turned his head slightly, his voice carrying the sharp edge of a threat. "One word could save you from

bleeding out. Say nothing, and maybe I will blow off your other leg."

She glared, lips pressed into a thin line. Not a sound. Not even a flinch.

Loyalty.

Ewan breathed out slowly. Sometimes he hated the word."

He reached up, fingers tugging on the strap of his helmet. It was still snug, but he adjusted anyway, tightening it

until it pinched at his jaw. The last thing he needed was a stray bullet glancing off and knocking it loose.

He tested the chin-strap twice, ensuring it was secure, then rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension in his

muscles.

With one last breath, he lifted his boot and drove it hard into the door.

The lock splintered, the door swinging open violently, banging against the wall. His pistol was already raised,

finger curled on the trigger.

And then—he froze.

A man stood in the middle of the room, gun pressed firmly against the head of a boy no older than twelve—

Ciara's little brother.

The boy’s wide eyes were glassy with terror, tears streaking his cheeks, his small chest heaving with shallow

breaths. Behind them, Ciara’s parents trembled, both bound, both crying, both whispering prayers that seemed

to go unheard.

"Move," the criminal snarled, pressing the barrel tighter against the boy’s temple, "and a bullet goes into his

head."

Ewan’s eyes narrowed. His gaze flicked quickly over the man. It-was-white singlet. Faded blue boxers. Feet bare.

His hair was unkempt, sweat beading on his forehead.

Not a good shooter or thug. Not even ready. Ewan concluded.

The latter must have rushed here when the shooting started, too desperate to save his life. He had chosen to

make a last stand with the nearest leverage available—innocents.

"You wouldn't want to do that," Ewan said evenly.

"Oh?" The criminal grinned, though his lips trembled. "Trust me, it would be my utmost pleasure. But | want to

know who you are first."

Ewan tilted his head, gun still trained. "So you think Ill answer your questions if you keep them alive? Trading

their lives for information?"

The man nodded, quick, eager. "Exactly. My boss would appreciate that more than their dead bodies. They're not

useful—just pawns to keep spies under control."

"Spies?" Ewan’s tone was cold. "You mean Ciara."

The fellow smirked at the recognition. "So you found her out, then. Stupid girl who can’t get anything right. She'll

pay for it, don’t worry..." He paused, a cruel light flashing in his eyes. "That's if you haven't punished her already

for aiding and abetting a cragainst the state."

Ewan’s lips pressed into a hard line. He didn’t blink. Didn't lower his weapon.

"I think that’s for us to decide," he replied quietly. "Now tell me, do you want to do this the easy way—or do you

want to lose a leg like your comrade outside?"

For a moment, the criminal’s bravado cracked. His brow furrowed. "You cut off her leg?"

The man’s grip tightened on the gun. Ewan could see the tremor, the unstable pulse of his hand. The wrong

word, the wrong twitch, and the little boy would be gone.

| have to put him away now. Ewan thought, jaw clenched.

His thumb brushed against the cool steel of his pistol, but an idea sparked in his mind. Slowly, deliberately, he

loosened his grip on the gun.

"Wait," he said. His voice softened, dipped into something persuasive. "I'll make you a trade. Information—for

their lives."

The criminal’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Ewan tilted the pistol away, lowering it slightly. "You want to know who | am? Fine. But you'll have to let them

live. I'll even throw my gun down."

The man’s lips curved into a shaky grin. "Now you're talking. Drop it. Slowly."

Ewan nodded, keeping his movements smooth, deliberate. He crouched, lowering his pistol to the floor, inch by

inch, making a show of compliance. His heart hammered, but his face betrayed nothing. The gun clinked softly

as it touched the ground.

"Good," the criminal said, his grin widening. He shifted his gun from the boy’s head and pointed it squarely at

Ewan. "Now stand up. Slowly. Hands where | can see them."

Ewan obeyed, rising to his feet, palms open, expression calm.

The criminal took steps forward, eager to claim the discarded weapon. His focus was split—on Ewan, on the gun

he was bending to retrieve, on his own arrogance. And that was enough.

Ewan’s thumb tapped fast, the small button on the strap at his thigh. A sharp, high-pitched chirp echoed in the

room—the alarm for backup. The sound made the man flinch, head snapping toward the unexpected noise.

That was all the distraction Ewan needed.

In a fluid motion, his hand darted to his waist, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the knife nestled there. His arm

whipped forward, muscles flexing, and the blade spun through the air with deadly precision.

The knife buried itself into the man’s throat with a sickening thunk, before the latter could realise what had

happened.

His eyes widened in shock, mouth opening soundlessly as he dropped both weapons, hands clawing at his neck.

Blood spilled over his chest, bubbling from his lips as he crumpled to the floor.

Silence fell. Only the sobs of Ciara’s family remained.

Ewan bent, picked up his gun, and

slid it back into his grip with the

familiarity of a many had Qohle

this toohany times before. His chest

rose and fell with steady breaths,

though inside, the adrenaline still

burned like fire. The content is on

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He strode toward the family. "Are you okay?" His voice was softer now, steadier.

He crouched, tugging at the ropes

that bound their wrists. The cords

cloose, and efoecieh

agide, Gres mother clutched her

son, tears wetting her face. The

father rubbed his wrists, his lips

parting as if to speak. The content is

on novelenglish.net! Read the latest

chapter there!

"Follow me," Ewan said firmly, helping them to their feet. Their legs were shaky, their faces pale, but they

obeyed. "Keep your questions for later. We need to leave."

He glanced toward the shattered window. Sirens were wailing in the distance, faint but growing louder. The police

were coming. And so, no doubt, was the backup for the gang.

He ushered them out into the hallway. Sandro stood there, backing them, gun raised, his head jerking here and

there, eyes wide as if expecting shadows to leap out.

Ewan chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "They're all gone."

Sandro spun at the sound of his voice, weapon still aimed.

"You going to shoot me?" Ewan teased dryly.

Sandro scoffed, lowering the gun to his side. Relief flashed across his face, though he tried to mask it with

irritation. "Let’s go. The police will be here any second. Neighbors must have tipped them off."

"Probably," Ewan said, falling into step. He motioned for Ciara's family to walk ahead, keeping himself at the

rear, every sense alert.

As they hurried down the stairs, he asked, "Did we lose any of our men?"

I" [1 : :

No," Sandro replied quickly, though

: [1

his brow furrowed. "But we haved lot

of injured. Goodthing ou fnsisted on

the EN ou really do make plans

like your ex-wife—first the helmets

n

and army gear, now the transport.

Ewan snorted softly, lips quirking. "Like you don’t know what attacking the gang entails."

"And Zane?" He asked, seconds later.

Sandro hesitated for a beat, then nodded. "He'll be fine."

sok

Dear Readers,

I'm excited to share that tomorrow, instead of the usual 2 Chapters, there will be 6 Chapters released!

This special drop is because two milestones were met:

The book has now received 40 Golden Tickets, which unlocks 2 extra Chapters.

And thanks to the super gift received, I'll be adding another extra 2 Chapters (even though this wasn't part of

the conditions | listed earlier this month, | believe it deserves a reward!).

Thank you all for your continued support—it truly means the world.

Thanks to Melanie specially, for the super gift!

Stay tuned for tomorrow's big release! And keep voting with your GT to unlock more releases!

Her scream split the air, high and raw. She crumpled, gun clattering as she fell.

Ewan rolled his eyes, exhaling harshly as the tension broke. He pushed off the wall and stepped out from cover,

limping slightly, gun still raised.

"Don’t," he said sharply, when her hand twitched toward her weapon. His voice carried steel, cold and final. "If

you want to live, don’t."

Her hand went limp. Her face twisted with pain, but she didn’t reach for the gun again.

Ewan bent down, picked the weapon up, and straightened with a wince.

"Is there someone in there?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the door behind her. His voice was flat, no-

nonsense.

The girl glared at him, and spat on the ground.

"You don’t know who you've angered," she hissed. "You don’t know what you've brought upon yourself..."

Ewan tilted his head, his face unreadable. Then, with a faint shrug, he replied, "I actually do. And if you knew

who I am, you wouldn't be so optimistic about my downfall."

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