NEMESIS GRINS AT THE MAFIA BOSS

You're all done today, no escape for any of you. A gun fired. The enemies were almost invisible to Robinson's group. They responded to the attack, but it was too late. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp odour of burning rubber. Robinson's heart pounded in his ears as he ran down the empty alley, his breathing in coarse gasps. Gunfire spreads across the night like fireworks, the echoes bouncing off the grime-stained walls. His palms trembled, wet with sweat, as he tightened his grip on the gun shoved in his waistband.

It was going to be a simple deal. A routine exchange. Quick cash, no problem. But now his crew was dead.

The ambush had been swift and merciless. A moment ago, Robinson and his people were laughing together, stacking bundles of cash into their duffel bags. The next was bullets that tore through the air, bringing his guys down before they could even draw their weapons. Blood sprayed along the concrete floor, warm and sticky. Screams still echoed in his head.

His best friend, Bayo, was the first to go. A bullet straight through his forehead. His body had crumpled like a discarded ragdoll. Another one of his guys, Idris, had barely turned before a rain of bullets shredded through his chest.

Now, Robinson was alone.

Boom! boom! Boom! His boots pounded the pavement as he fled behind a rusty dumpster. Slowly, like a chameleon, he reclined back against the cold metal, his chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. His mind rushed. Who the devil had set them up?

A shadow flickered in the dim streetlight.

Robinson stood.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

A hard swallow, the gun stuck to the shaking hands. The heart thudded against the ribs like a bass drum on a subwoofer as the man stepped forward. A black leather-jacketed guy, rifle thrown over his shoulder, whistled softly.

Then, the man stopped. Just a few feet away.

Robinson barely breathed.

"It's done," he murmured. "They're all dead." The man reported over the phone.

Not all of us.

Robinson's muscles coiled like a loaded spring. He had one chance. If he missed, he was dead.

He jumped at the man, with his hand clamped over the man's mouth before he could scream. He pressed the cold barrel of his gun to the back of his skull with the other hand. The man's body went rigid, his breath hitching.

"Who sent you?" Robinson hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

The man trembled. "P-please, man... I-I was just following orders-"

"Who?" Robinson tightened his grip.

The man took a sharp breath. And then-

A gunshot rang out.

A hot spray of blood on Robinson's face. The man jerked, eyes wide in shock. His head was pierced through by the bullet, blood trickling down his temple. His body slumped forward, dead before hitting the ground.

Robinson's heart raced.

Someone else was there.

Someone who didn't want him to know the truth.

He whirled around, gun raised-

But the alley was empty.

Only the distant wail of sirens filled the night air.

And Robinson knew that whoever had orchestrated this massacre was still watching. Waiting.

Frozen, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his heart pounded harder than ever before. The man at his feet-his only lead-lay lifeless, his skull split open from a sniper's bullet.

Whoever had set them up was still out there watching.

Robinson tightened his grip on his pistol, taking slow steps backwards. His mind screamed," Move! Move! But his legs felt like lead. Like a furious drumbeat so pounds the heart against his ribs.

Then-

A rustling sound.

Robinson spun, gun raised.

Nothing. Just the shifting shadows cast by the flickering streetlights.

Then, a soft click.

His gut twisted. A sniper was locking in their next shot.

Another shot tore through the air, but luckily for him, he had dropped to the ground just a mini seconds before. The bullet whizzed past his ear, embedding itself into the dumpster behind him with a loud clang!

Rolling behind a stack of wooden crates, like steam, he evaporated into the shadows. His ears rang from the close call, but he forced himself to stay still. His only chance was to figure out where the shots were coming from.

A third shot. It hit the crate he was hiding behind, splintering the wood.

They're moving in.

Looking around the edge, he saw a figure across the alley, on the rooftop of an old warehouse, crouching, adjusting their rifle. Their face was obscured by a dark hood.

His blood turned to ice.

This wasn't just a setup. This was a cleanup.

Whoever they were, they didn't just want him dead. They wanted him erased. No loose ends.

Robinson didn't plan on dying tonight.

He took a deep breath and thought about what to do. Then he spotted a rusty, bent fire escape ladder on the side of the nearest building. It was his last resort.

He rolled the dice.

Jumping out of concealment, he sprinted. Another bullet sang out, lucky again, it zipped past him by inches. He leapt, hardly touching, his chest gripped around the metal rungs of the ladder. The rusty steel groaned under him, but he climbed up in haste.

Another bullet. It hit the ladder just beneath his foot. He climbed more rapidly.

The sniper swore on the roof. They were losing him.

By the time he was at the top of the fire escape, the sniper was in motion, making his way towards the opposite end of the roof.

Robinson ran across the roof. Though his muscles burned, he did not slacken. If only he could get to the opposite side, he could jump to the next building and disappear into the maze of alleys below.

Caught a glimpse of- just in time to see the sniper pull out a pistol. Robinson was in peril.

They're not waiting for a clean shot anymore.

A bullet whizzed past his shoulder. The roof is too open, he was a moving target with nowhere to hide.

A burst of adrenaline flowed through his veins. He was out of time.

There was a rusty water tank in front of him. If he could get behind it, he'd have time to catch his breath.

He strained harder. The sniper managed to get a second shot off. Now the bullet only grazed his arm, a searing lash cutting through the skin. He cursed, taking cover behind the tank.

Shuddering, he leaned against the cold metal, gasping for breath. His shoulder throbbed from the graze, warm blood trickling down his arm.

I have to end this.

He peeked out. The sniper was approaching slowly, gun raised, eyes scanning the rooftop.

Now or never.

Robinson moved fast. Grabbing a loose metal pipe from the ground and flinging it toward the opposite end of the roof, the sniper jerked toward the noise, distracted.

Robinson seized the moment.

He launched himself forward. The sniper barely turned before Robinson tackled them to the ground.

Guns screeched across the rooftop. Fumbling for a knife strapped to their waist, Robinson grabbed their wrist, twisted it with every ounce of strength in him. The sniper groaned in agony.

And then Robinson yanked off the hood.

His blood ran cold.

A woman.

Sweat and dirt smeared across her face, ferocious and set eyes locked on his. A scar slanted down her jaw, her dark hair piled high in a tight braid.

Robinson was not frozen in the face, but by the tattoo on her wrist.

A snake wrapped around a dagger.

He knew that symbol.

The Vultures.

A brutal cartel known for wiping out entire gangs overnight. If they were after him, it meant one thing-

Someone had hired them to take him out.

The woman smirked. "You're dead, Robinson.

Knee slammed into his stomach. Pain erupted through his ribs. He stumbled back.

She lunged for her gun.

Robinson kicked it away, sending it flying off the rooftop.

The woman cursed.

Running for the edge of the roof, she jumped.

Robinson had thought she was trying to commit suicide, but instead she landed professionally on the flat roof beneath her, rolling into a crouch.

She turned around and gave him a last look.

Then she said to him, "Next time, you won't be so lucky." And into the night she disappeared. Robinson stayed there, his body aching, his head spinning.

Who had sold them out?

And why were the Vultures after them?

One thing was certain.

This wasn't over.