Chapter 44: Female Assassin, Collaboration

Knee strikes, swaying punches—Owen blocked each one and countered with elbow strikes, which the female server deflected with her arms. Seizing an opportunity, Owen closed in, but she suddenly aimed a kick skyward at his chin.

If the kick landed, Owen would be severely injured, if not dead. He blocked hurriedly, countering with a knee to her abdomen. The server's kick was caught, and she could only grunt in pain from Owen's blow.

Owen followed up with another attack, but she twisted away in evasion.

Her hair fluttered during the spin. As she turned back, she lunged at Owen with a hairpin she had grabbed while turning, now using it as a makeshift dagger.

Thankfully, Owen had kept his distance, abruptly stopping his advance and sidestepping. The server didn't relent, her hairpin striking like a venomous snake. Owen continually retreated, dodging the thrusts and slashes.

During his retreat, Owen grabbed a magazine, rolling it into a cylinder to use as a weapon.

Armed, the situation shifted. The magazine's length gave Owen an advantage over the hairpin, allowing him to strike first. After several unsuccessful attacks from the server, she was hit by Owen multiple times.

As the server attacked again, Owen counter-struck, but she feigned a thrust, then swept his feet with a sudden kick, knocking Owen to the ground.

The server lunged with the hairpin. Owen, on his back, unable to dodge, braced his feet in defense. She couldn't get close, instead aiming for his thigh. Owen kicked her wrist, knocking the hairpin away, then sprung his legs, sending her back.

Luckily, the server landed on the sofa. Owen quickly got up, planning to attack while she was down, but she mirrored his move and kicked back. Owen was at a disadvantage, the high heels leaving marks on his chest. This woman was strong, her kick painfully impacting his chest.

After this exchange, they separated. Only now did Owen get a good look at her. The woman was beautiful, with fair skin and a tall figure. Her chestnut hair, no longer tied up, cascaded down, and her large eyes, though fierce, were captivating.

But no matter how attractive, she was still an enemy. Owen drew his gun as they kept their distance. The server backflipped behind the sofa, emerging with a gun pointed at Owen.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded outside. Neither fired, maintaining a tense standoff.

By now, both understood this was likely a misunderstanding. They had fought silently, both sustaining injuries but never raising an alarm.

Owen, gun in one hand, faced the woman who now stood with both hands on her weapon. The footsteps outside grew louder then faded. The woman stood up from behind the sofa, gun still trained on Owen.

"Go our separate ways?"

"Separate ways!"

Quickly reaching an understanding, they lowered their guns and holstered them simultaneously, but remained watchful. The woman slowly moved to the door, then turned and left.

Owen exhaled deeply. This woman was no ordinary person—a skilled fighter and likely an assassin. Her weapon was pre-hidden behind the sofa, indicating she infiltrated as a server due to strict security checks. Their encounter had been unfortunate but a mere misunderstanding.

Shaking his head, Owen realized this detour had cost him precious time. He had yet to find Amanda and needed to hurry.

But before he could act, the door opened again. The woman returned, signaling Owen to be silent, then listened at the door.

Before Owen could ask, rapid footsteps sounded outside. Then, his walkie-talkie crackled in French, then in English: "Someone killed Chekhov. Everyone, hold your positions. Curie, secure the fourth-floor entrance. Treat any unfamiliar faces on the fourth floor as enemies, with lethal force if necessary. Also, evacuate the women; they're a liability."

The footsteps receded. Owen's eyes lit up at the mention of "the women" – Amanda might be on the fourth floor.

The female assassin had the same thought. With her target likely on the heavily guarded fourth floor, she turned to Owen, who also looked at her.

"Fourth floor?"

"Fourth floor."

"Collaborate?"

"Collaborate."

...

Brook Mansion

When Brian arrived at Brook Mansion, a party had just started, with guests arriving with their companions. Each guest showed an invitation at the door. Brian's "invitation" was his security agency badge.

The guard scrutinized Brian's badge but couldn't discern its authenticity. Considering the unlikely scenario of someone impersonating an internal security agent at such an event, he returned the badge to Brian.

The party wasn't overly extravagant, and Brian easily blended in. Mingling with the crowd, he learned the identity of the party's host.

Saint Gare, a Jew with a shipping company, seemed well-educated and cultivated, mingling and joking with the guests. Brian noted him as a skilled party host, drawing laughter and conversation wherever he went.

Observing the party, Brian watched as someone whispered to Saint Gare, who then warmly greeted a Middle-Eastern dressed guest, embracing him enthusiastically. The two conversed amiably and ascended to the second floor, an open area of the party.

Brian followed at a discreet distance, overhearing words like "auction" and "starting."

Pausing in a corridor, Brian watched as they entered a room guarded inside.

After they disappeared, Brian surveyed the party from the second floor, casually scanning the area. Unsure where the door led and if other entrances existed, he decided to investigate. Approaching the door, Brian speculated they might be discussing the auction. It was time to take a closer look.