My Husband’s Syndicate Laughed At My Weight—Until I Locked The Doors And Butchered Their Assassins

Part 2

Two guards were watching the perimeter outside Dan’s study, scanning the dark corridor through their green-tinted optics.

They were professionals, but against night vision, movement was death.

I waited in the alcove of a large marble statue, letting the shadows mask my bulk.

As one guard stepped closer, turning his head to communicate via radio, I struck.

I didn’t use finesse; I launched my two hundred and twenty pounds of dense, trained mass forward.

I drove my shoulder directly into the man’s sternum with the force of a freight train.

The impact shattered his ribs instantly, the sickening crunch echoing in the quiet hall.

Before he could even exhale, I grabbed the back of his tactical helmet and violently twisted his neck.

The second guard spun around, raising his rifle, shocked by the sudden, silent takedown of his partner.

He hesitated for half a second when he saw my massive silhouette.

That was a fatal mistake.

I closed the gap, swiping the combat knife from my boot in one fluid motion.

I parried the barrel of his rifle aside with my left forearm, ignoring the bruising pain.

I drove the heavy blade upward, burying it into his diaphragm beneath his Kevlar vest.

I let his body drop to the floor without a sound and picked up his suppressed submachine gun.

I stepped into the doorway of the study.

Inside, the two remaining assassins were advancing on Dan, who was clutching his bleeding shoulder behind his oak desk.

I raised the submachine gun and fired in rapid, controlled bursts.

The first man took two rounds to the face, his night vision goggles shattering into bloody plastic.

The second man caught two rounds in the throat, collapsing onto the Persian rug.

Silence descended on the room, broken only by the sound of the rain.

Dan slowly pulled himself up from behind the desk, staring at the bodies scattered across his floor.

He looked at me, struggling to process the sheer brutal efficiency he had just witnessed.

I walked methodically to each body, checking their pulses, completely unbothered by the carnage.

He asked me who the hell I was, the pain in his shoulder momentarily forgotten in the face of absolute shock.

I knelt beside him, ripping a piece of fabric from one of the dead men’s shirts to apply pressure to his wound.

I looked him dead in the eye, the shy, clumsy girl completely gone.

I told him I was his insurance policy, and he needed to follow my lead if he wanted to live long enough to kill Craig for setting us up.

As we fled into the freezing night toward the hidden landscaper’s truck, Dan watched me pack his wound with a military-grade trauma kit I had hidden under the floorboards.

He asked me who had trained me, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.

I told him the truth about the private military contractors my father had hired, and how they had spent ten years turning an awkward girl into a ghost.

He realized he hadn’t married a pawn, but a weapon.

Now that Yuri’s men were dead and we were on the run, how long would it take before I turned my crosshairs on the underboss who had sold us out?