CHAPTER 33: The Fugitive Part 4

CHAPTER 33: The Fugitive Part 4

The cold, blood-tinged water dripped from Fénix's staggering figure. He straightened up with agonizing slowness, every movement a battle against gravity and the tearing pain coursing through his body. His eyes, two embers of fury in a pale face stained scarlet, scanned the chaos he himself had precipitated.

At the bar, far from the epicenter of the disaster, Enid and Marcus watched, paralyzed for a moment. Enid's professionalism shattered at the sight of the man she thought was safe in the van, now at the center of a massacre.

"What the hell...?" murmured Marcus, his voice a thread of disbelief. "He was... How...?"

"Fénix..." The name escaped Enid's lips like a whisper laden with icy frustration.

Fénix looked up, finding his companions' eyes through the panicked crowd. A minimal gesture, an attempt to raise a hand to calm them, died in his arm. A familiar, stinging sensation ran along his nasal septum. A warm, thick drop slid down his upper lip. Then another. Blood was dripping from his nose, each drop hitting the wet floor with a sound only he seemed to hear, a metronome of his own countdown.

"Not now..." he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse. "Damn it, not now..."

It was the second of distraction Darem needed.

"No time to rest, Fénix!" Darem roared, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. "This is just beginning!"

The man wasn't wielding one, but three short, heavy bayonets, designed to pierce and tear. With the precision of a knife thrower, his arm tensed and he threw them. There was no whistling sound, only the dull, wet impact of metal penetrating flesh and lodging in Fénix's torso. The impact pushed him backward, making him stumble over the fountain debris.

Fénix looked down. Three metal hilts protruded from his chest and abdomen, forming a macabre trio. Blood was already soaking the dark fabric of his suit.

"FÉNIX!" Marcus's shout echoed through the now nearly empty hall.

"Damn it, this wasn't his mission!" Enid gripped the bar table, her knuckles whitening.

Darem advanced, his steps echoing in the expectant silence that had followed the screams. He expected to see his rival collapse. He expected surrender.

Fénix did not fall.

Darem arched an eyebrow, a spark of genuine curiosity mixed with his sadistic amusement.

"What...? Nothing? Not even a scream?"

Fénix looked up. Blood stained his teeth, but his smile was a cold, ruthless gesture.

"Is that all you've got?" he spat, each word splattered with red. "Did you think some toy bayonets would stop me? I've had breakfasts more painful than this."

With a movement that made Enid writhe with impotence, Fénix grabbed the hilt of one of the bayonets and ripped it from his flesh with a wet, repulsive sound. He tossed it into the puddle at his feet with disdain.

Darem smiled, broad and genuine.

"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Fénix. Let's make this interesting."

Among the fleeing crowd, Viktor adjusted the impeccable lapels of his suit.

"This is getting interesting..." he murmured, though his tone denoted more boredom than excitement. "But I have more important matters to attend to."

He turned to Irene, who was watching the scene with the enigmatic smile of a cat that has found a new toy.

"Irene, darling, it's time to leave. Let Darem finish his... masterpiece."

Irene shrugged, her black silk dress moving like water.

"As you wish, brother. Though it will be a waste not to witness the finale."

They vanished into the confusion, two elegant shadows abandoning the theater of carnage.

Marcus looked at Enid, his face a mask of determination.

"Stay alert and don't interfere yet, Enid. This is about to get uglier than it already is."

Before she could object, Marcus pushed his way through the last stragglers running and screaming. He planted himself beside Fénix, who was panting, trying to stay conscious. With a quick movement, he drew his backup pistol—a HK USP compact—and aimed it at Darem.

"Need a little help, old man?"

A sarcastic smile, tinged with red, spread across his face.

"I thought your plan was to stay at the bar flirting with vampires, not save my ass."

Marcus offered a tense smile as he assumed a combat stance, looking at Darem.

"You know how I am. Change of plans. Now, let's focus on beating the crap out of this bastard."

Darem, who had watched them with his arms crossed, slowly applauded, a dry sound that echoed in the empty hall.

"Oh, so now it's two against one? I'm flattered, but I'm still the one with the upper hand. Who's first?"

Marcus's response was instant. He fired three times, quickly, at Darem's center of mass. The impacts made the large man shudder, but he didn't fall. The bullets had sunk into a bulletproof vest hidden under his clothes. Darem merely brushed himself off as if flicking away crumbs.

"Is that all?" he asked, feigning a yawn. "I thought the second act would be more exciting."

"Don't worry," Fénix growled, raising Marcus's weapon. "You're gonna love the third one."

With a cry of pure rage, Fénix charged. Marcus covered him, firing to distract Darem. The fight became a brutal dance of strength and agility. Darem dodged, blocked, and counterattacked with a strength that seemed incredible for a human, his movements economical and lethal. Fénix, driven by fury and the serum, and Marcus, with his tactical precision, barely managed to keep him at bay, but it was a battle of attrition they were losing.

In a movement quick as a snake, Darem deflected a blow from Fénix and, with a bayonet that seemed to materialize in his hand, cleanly stabbed it into Fénix's neck. Not in the jugular, but in the muscle, a debilitating and painful wound, but not immediately fatal for someone with Fénix's constitution.