Chapter 4: The Parasites' Trap

Camilla’s ragged gasps and hysterical sobbing over the speakerphone didn't elicit even a flicker of emotion from Astrid.

"Astrid, listen to me!" Camilla shrieked, her frantic voice bouncing off the high ceilings of the living room. "Viktor is a stone-cold killer! Julian’s lost his damn mind over these debts. You have to hand over the money, Astrid! If you don't, they’ll come after me next... they know my penthouse was bought in Julian's name!"

A chilling smirk touched Astrid’s lips.

In their previous life, Camilla had always played the innocent, helpless doe while whispering poison into Julian’s ear to destroy her. Now, she wasn't calling out of genuine concern for Astrid’s safety; she was terrified of losing her pampered lifestyle and ending up on a mobster's hit list. Camilla just wanted Astrid to play the sacrificial lamb once again—to act as the financial shield cleaning up Julian’s mess, just like she always had.

"Good," Astrid said, her tone so flat it cut right through Camilla's shrieking. "Tell my ex-husband I'll be waiting."

Before Camilla could get another word in, Astrid ended the call. She powered down the burner phone and tossed it onto the glass table.

Beside the workbench, Nora clutched a heavy steel wrench with white-knuckled intensity, her face drawn tight. "Astrid, loan-shark enforcers with guns aren't a joke. We need to call the cops—"

"The police won't make it up this mountain in time, Nora," Astrid cut in, fixing her friend with an unyielding gaze. "Besides, the rule of law in this city collapses in less than a month. Starting today, we handle our own threats."

Astrid strode toward the back corridor and pressed a hidden latch along the paneling, unlocking the heavy iron door leading down to the sub-basement.

"Get down to the control room, Nora," Astrid ordered with the crisp authority of a commander. "Lock the blast door from the inside and don't come out no matter what you hear. Keep your eyes on the perimeter feeds. If anyone tries to scale the perimeter fences, trip the pressure alarms."

Nora’s eyes filled with worry, but the steely resolve in Astrid’s gaze grounded her in an odd, inexplicable way. "What about you?"

"I’m going to welcome our guests," Astrid replied coldly.

The moment Nora sealed the bunker door behind her, Astrid headed straight for the private study of her late grandfather, Arthur Pierce. Behind the heavy oak bookcase lay a reinforced walk-in vault. Her grandfather had been a decorated marksman and an avid big-game hunter.

Astrid flicked on the vault lights. Polished glass cabinets displayed rows of high-powered, impeccably maintained long rifles.

Her hands moved with fluid, muscle-memory precision. She bypassed the standard hunting pieces and pulled down a heavy-caliber rifle with a matte-black barrel and a long-range tactical optic. From the ammo drawers, she grabbed three magazines packed with large-caliber armor-piercing rounds.

Clack!

The crisp sound of a round chambering felt intimately familiar.

Astrid closed her eyes for a brief heartbeat. Years of clawing through the bloody, desperate remnants of the apocalypse—the stench of cordite, copper, and raw survival—surged through her veins. Her body might have woken up in this timeline only hours ago, but the instincts of an apex survivor had already fully reclaimed their host.

Slapping an extra bandolier across her chest, she took the stairs up to the second-floor terrace.

The throaty roar of heavy diesel engines shattered the stillness of Blackwood Hill. Three unmarked black vans tore through the mountain mist, screeching to a halt outside the estate’s reinforced outer gates.

The doors slid open in unison. A dozen broad-shouldered men piled out onto the asphalt. Most wore battered leather jackets, sleeves rolled up to reveal crude tattoos, brandishing iron pipes, serrated cleavers, and untraceable zip guns.

From the passenger seat of the lead van stepped a burly, bald man with a jagged burn scar running down his left cheek. Viktor. One of the most ruthless loan sharks in Oakhaven's lower districts. He took a slow drag from a thick cigar, a heavy automatic tucked into his waistband.

Beside him stood Julian Sterling, his dress shirt wrinkled and his designer tie askew. Julian was pale, his eyes manic and wild. Flanked by a dozen armed thugs, the cowardly shame that had broken him earlier that morning was suddenly replaced by a surge of bloated arrogance.

Julian snatched a portable megaphone from one of Viktor's men and marched up to the locked steel gates.

"Astrid Pierce! Get your ass out here, you bitch!" Julian roared into the horn, his voice echoing shrilly across the ridge. "Don't think you can hide behind that fence after humiliating me and locking down my funds!"

Julian spat onto the pavement, glaring at the dark villa windows with a vicious sneer.

"Listen up, Astrid! Boss Viktor is giving you five minutes! Bring out the deed to this entire hill, the keys to your grandfather's vault, and five million in cash right now! You keep acting stubborn, and Viktor’s boys will tear this gate off its hinges, level the estate, and butcher you where you stand!"

Beside him, Viktor barked a dry laugh, exhaling a plume of cigar smoke into the crisp air. "The kid’s right, sweetheart. Hand over what we want, or tonight you’ll learn the hard way just how cheap a rich girl's life is in my hands."

Viktor’s thugs began slamming their pipes against the steel gate, raising a deafening, rhythmic racket meant to break her resolve.

Inside the estate, there were no terrified screams. No trembling heiress crawling out to beg on her knees.

Up on the second-floor balcony, shielded behind decorative wrought-iron railings and heavy blackout drapes, Astrid stood motionless. The mountain wind whipped the hem of her dark coat.

She didn't waste her breath trading petty insults. Negotiation was reserved for equals. When dealing with leeches and feral dogs demanding blood, there was only one language they understood: absolute violence.

With smooth, unhurried precision, Astrid rested the heavy barrel on the balcony railing. She leaned in, aligning her eye with the crosshairs.

Her optic reticle drifted past Julian’s screaming face and locked directly onto the engine block of Viktor’s lead van—right where the high-pressure fuel lines met the pressurized block.

Astrid exhaled slowly. Her slender finger squeezed the trigger.

CRACK!

The deafening report of the high-caliber round ripped through the mountain air like a thunderclap!

The armor-piercing slug tore through the hood, punching straight into the heavy engine block with catastrophic force. Metal disintegrated into shrapnel, spraying superheated oil and setting off the pressurized fuel lines.

KABOOM!

A massive fireball ripped through the van's front end, blasting the twisted hood thirty feet into the sky. The concussive shockwave flattened Julian where he stood, throwing him hard onto the rocky asphalt.

"Aaargh! Help me!" Julian shrieked like a slaughtered hog, thrashing violently against the pavement. He clutched his ringing head, a dark stain rapidly spreading across his expensive gray trousers as terror made him wet himself on the spot.

Viktor stumbled back, his cigar knocked into the dirt. His face twisted from shock into incandescent rage. "The hell?! That bitch fired at us?! Kill her! Light up that balcony right now—!"

Viktor’s men scrambled, frantically raising their weapons toward the second floor.

Before a single finger could reach a trigger—

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

A blistering burst of automatic rifle fire erupted from the concrete watchtower across the ridge—Declan Mercer’s compound.

A hail of high-velocity rounds chewed through the asphalt inches from Viktor’s combat boots. The pavement shattered into jagged rock splinters that shredded the mob boss's leather trousers, kicking up a thick, choking screen of cordite smoke.

It was lethal, terrifyingly precise marksmanship, deliberately drawing a line in the sand that meant instant death to cross.

The thugs froze in their tracks, their bravado completely shattered by true military firepower.

A second later, a deep, gravelly voice laced with cold authority boomed through the tactical loudspeakers mounted on Mercer's tower:

"Three seconds to turn around. Make one more move... and my next round goes through your skulls."