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A small black motorcycle pulled off of the road and onto the warehouse’s driveway. The driver, covered in black leather, navigated her bike between many cars. She turned off her engine as she brought the motorcycle to a rest. Removing her black helmet revealed her alabaster skin, straight black hair, luscious red lips, and radiant blue eyes. She swung one leg over the bike, stepping onto the ground. Unslinging an MP44 assault rifle from her back, she pulled the bolt back, and thumbed off the safety. The woman pointed the gun straight ahead, resting it on her shoulder. She made her way to the entrance.
Hearing the gunshots resonate through the building, the rest of the mercenaries rushed to the noise. They converged on Michael and John’s hiding place, itching to kill them. They found three mutilated corpses. The men searched for the assassins, but to no avail. It was a matter of seconds before they discovered the other dead killers.
The leather-clad woman cautiously opened the door on her left at the entrance. There were no signs of life as she trained her gun on the darkened interior. She stepped inside, her breathing slow, quiet and controlled, her pupils constricted. Her movements were fast and precise. Determining that no one else was around, she walked toward the hallway, only to abruptly stop.
A man with short, greased back brown hair stepped out of his old brown Oldsmobile. His open green windbreaker revealed a worn-out white gym shirt. Faded, tattered blue jeans covered his legs. His grizzled shoes crunched on dust and gravel as he walked to the trunk of his car. He pulled the door upward, grabbing a sawed-off double barrel shotgun with a brown, polished wooden grip. Pumping the slide, he moved across the rock-laden ground to the warehouse.
John and Michael lurked in concealment, waiting for the right moment to strike. They heard their attackers’ shuffling feet as they swiftly arrived.
Their focus was deep. Michael felt like a stealthy predator. His body language was similar to a ferocious, slithering serpent. He would bide his time, clandestinely sliding through tall, camouflaging grass until his prey was completely vulnerable. When his victim felt secure and unperturbed, he would burst from cover, striking a fatal blow with lightning-fast prowess.
The woman holding an MP44 froze in her tracks before entering the main hallway. She heard indistinct voices in close proximity. Judging from the dialogue, she was grossly outnumbered. So she flew to cover behind a cluster of dilapidated wooden and cardboard boxes.
Michael and John heard the mercenaries exit the room where they had discovered their dead partners. The foreboding sound of heavy boots was unmistakable. The killers had no idea what was about to happen.
Pointing his sawed-off shotgun into the void of the warehouse’s entrance, the man wearing a windbreaker vigilantly stepped into the inner area. He heard muddled tones. Before he reacted, the shapely brunette woman revealed herself, raising her head and one of her arms above the boxes. She waved at him and beckoned him to her improvised hiding place. He recognized her soft, appealing figure, quickly moving toward her.
As his black polished loafers hit the ground, sunlight glinted off of a man’s white glasses. His long, dirty blonde hair swayed as he stepped out of his red Ford mustang. His dapper silver suit was lightly ruffled. He nonchalantly walked to his trunk, and grabbed a slick black Core-15 TAC III rifle. Before closing the trunk, he grabbed a handful of magazines, stuffing them into his pockets. His gun ready, he headed toward the warehouse.