Chapter 177: Fragments Of Chaos 2!

Chapter 177: Fragments Of Chaos 2!

Hidden from plain sight, Level 4 and 5 Rhemon agents sat perched in strategic vantage points, their communication cables wrapped tightly around their heads. Their concealed earpieces buzzed faintly, connecting them to the leader, whose calm voice provided the group with measured instructions.

From a covert platform near the food distribution line, one of the agents whispered into his microphone, positioned neatly at the corner of his lips.

"I think I see the culprit," he said, his voice low but urgent. "He matches the description provided by the detainees. Should we take him out or wait?"

"Wait," came the curt response from the lead agent. His tone carried the weight of experience. "I'm not convinced yet. If it's him, he'll make a move soon enough. We can't afford to act rashly."

"But it's him! He looks just like the sketch," another voice insisted, his eagerness barely suppressed.

"Hold your position," the leader commanded sharply. "A shot now will cause chaos. If he suspects us, we'll lose him in the confusion. Let him lower his guard. Then we strike."

The agents grumbled in compliance, shifting their focus back to their target.

Carlos Núñez stood in the line, his weathered face giving nothing away. The night was quiet, save for the soft murmur of the crowd. He moved with a practiced ease, blending seamlessly with the desperate masses who had come for food. He was unaware of the eyes tracking his every move.

The Rhemon agents had been on high alert since the discovery of their comrades' bodies. Carlos had struck with brutal efficiency days before, eliminating the guards stationed at a food stockpile and taking what he needed to feed himself and his daughter. The theft had not gone unnoticed, and the Rhemon forces were enraged at the loss of their men.

In the aftermath, they had rounded up a group of scavengers who had been in the area at the time. The interrogations were harsh, bordering on merciless, as the agents sought any clue that could lead them to the perpetrator. The descriptions they obtained were eerily consistent: a wiry man with hollow eyes and a grim expression. A sketch artist had pieced together the fragmented details, producing an image that closely resembled Carlos.

Now, the agents had set their trap. Disguised as ordinary civilians, they managed the food line while their armed counterparts lay in wait, hidden among the shadows and rooftops. The plan was simple—lure the killer into the open, observe his actions, and strike when the moment was right.

Carlos advanced through the queue, his posture casual, though his eyes flickered with the wariness of a hunted animal. His movements betrayed nothing, but his mind was a storm of calculations. He had been careful, changing routes, avoiding patterns, ensuring he left no trace. Yet, as he approached the distribution point, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

The agents tightened their grip on their weapons, their breathing steady but their hearts racing. Their target was close—too close to let slip. Yet they held back, their leader's voice echoing in their minds: Patience. Precision.

Carlos reached the counter. A man in a tattered jacket handed him a small bag of provisions, his face stoic but his eyes sharp, scanning Carlos as if searching for a sign of weakness.

Carlos muttered a quiet thank you, his voice almost swallowed by the din of the bustling street as he turned to leave. His fingers gripped the bag tightly, knuckles whitening under the strain.

Every step he took was deliberate, his ears tuned to the whispers of the street. A shadow of unease crept into his mind, but he couldn't afford to falter. His daughter's face—small, fragile, and hopeful—flashed before his eyes. I just have to get to her. One more day of safety.

"Leader," an agent hissed into a concealed microphone, his voice tinged with impatience. "Target's on the move. Orders?"

"Not yet," the leader's voice crackled back, calm but edged with menace. "Let him breathe. The more secure he feels, the harder he'll fall. We strike when he's most vulnerable."

Carlos moved through the crowd with practiced precision, weaving between vendors hawking their wares and buyers haggling over prices. Yet, beneath the cacophony, he could feel it—the weight of eyes locked on him, watching, waiting. Somewhere in the shadows, chaos stirred, coiled and ready to strike.

Then, it happened.

A shout cut through the cacophony of the noisy street like a knife. "Now! All agents—fire!"

The first bullet zipped past Carlos, slicing the air near his ear. He twisted instinctively, his aged body moving with a grace that belied the years etched into his skin. Years of experience surged through him as muscle memory kicked in.

Diving into the cover of a narrow alley, Carlos narrowly dodged another volley of gunfire. The crowd erupted in panic, people scattering like startled birds. The very thing the Rhemon agents wanted to avoid—a public spectacle—unfolded before their eyes.

Carlos didn't stop. His legs pumped with desperate urgency as bullets tore through the air around him, embedding into walls and ricocheting off metal stands. The scent of gunpowder and the chaos of screaming voices filled the atmosphere. He veered sharply into a bushy path, its overgrowth offering fleeting protection. The agents pursued relentlessly, their shouts and boots pounding the ground behind him.

Just as he thought he was out of their range, fate struck cruelly. A stray bullet ricocheted off the cobblestone street, its trajectory unpredictable. It found its mark in his hip, tearing through flesh. Carlos stumbled, a low, guttural scream escaping his lips as pain surged through his body. Warm blood trickled down his leg, staining his jeans a deep crimson.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to press on. Not now. Not here. I can't die here. She's waiting for me.

Each step became a battle, his vision blurring with every drop of blood he lost. Reaching his car felt like an eternity, but he finally staggered into the driver's seat, his hand trembling as he fumbled for the keys. The roar of the engine was a lifeline, the sound of defiance against the agents closing in.

With sheer determination, Carlos slammed his foot on the accelerator, the car lurching forward. Bullets clinked against the body of the vehicle as he swerved out of the alley and into the open road. The agents faded into the distance, their curses drowned by the hum of the engine.

Carlos Nunez drove on, the world outside a blur. His grip on the wheel tightened, his breathing ragged. The bag of provisions lay beside him, stained with the blood that seeped from his hip. He wasn't safe yet, but he had one thing to hold on to: a promise to his daughter.