Chapter 14 - Soiree Incident Pt.5

The bald-headed man carefully walked through the chaos, his sharp eyes absorbing the grim scene—bones and clothing scattered everywhere, remnants of the fierce fight.

The machete at his hip rested securely in a sheath, its hilt protruding with an air of readiness.

The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, providing a reliable grip, and bore subtle notches that suggested years of use.

As the flickering lights swung overhead, the hilt caught the light, a silent reminder of the weapon's weight and its enduring purpose amidst the destruction.

He muttered, "What in God's name happened here?" while a few men tended to Deon's injuries. Meanwhile, others, weapons drawn, circled the valet, their movements tense and watchful.

He stopped in front of Malachi, a smirk playing on his lips. "Letting this dude get the drop on you, Malachi?" he taunted, exchanging a quick fist bump with him and Noah. "I thought I taught you to fight better than that."

Fabian came forward, supporting Jermaine, whose chest had a steaming hole that was slowly healing, though not completely closed.

The bald-headed man arched an eyebrow in surprise. "You're a tough one, huh? You alive, son?"

With a weary but confident smile, Jermaine nodded. "Yeah, I'll live." Nearby, an agent led Deon away while the rest surrounded the valet, their weapons trained relentlessly on him.

"Uncle Vance, what's going on?" Malachi inquired, his tone a mix of familiarity and urgency.

A shadow crossed Vance's face as he hesitated. "My apologies for the delay," he said, his voice low and controlled. "The island's in a full-blown crisis.

The clans are taking a brutal hit." He gestured towards the valet, the quiet menace in his demeanor unmistakable even in its restraint.

Malachi leaned in, his voice hushed but urgent. "Uncle.… this guy is after our souls, . And he's working with fallen angels."

Vance's gaze locked onto the valet, a grim understanding dawning on his face.

"I never thought I'd see the day when criminals and demons teamed up," he muttered, his voice laced with grim amusement.

Miguel, his brow furrowed, asked, "You know him?"

Vance's eyes narrowed.

"That's Brooks," he stated flatly. "A name that should send shivers down the spines of every law enforcement officer on this island.

He's been a thorn in our side for years, and now this..." The unspoken threat hanging in the air was heavier than any weapon.

Jermaine, intrigued, tilted his head towards Vance, absorbing this new piece of information.

"Oh crap," Noah muttered, drawing the group's attention to the impossible sight before them.

They watched in disbelief as Brooks's shattered jaw began to mend itself, skin-like tentacles snaking out to fuse and form a perfect jawline.

Brooks chomped his restored jaw, shook his head, and yelled, "Woah!" his voice dripping with triumphant mockery.

Before anyone could react, an agent spoke urgently, "Awaiting your command, Inspector."

Brooks rose, exuding a confidence that teetered on arrogance. He called out, his voice smooth, laced with derision. "Inspector Vance! Always a pleasure. It feels like I've been waiting an eternity for your delightful company."

Unfazed, Vance clutched the hilt of his machete, his expression lined with weariness. "Brooks, these encounters are getting old.

How about we end this?" he suggested, his voice steady and resolute.

Brooks chuckled, the sound reminiscent of a snake's scales brushing against each other.

Brooks nodded, a menacing gleam in his eyes. "They certainly make an impression," he said with sardonic amusement.

Stepping closer, he added, "But tonight, the final curtain falls. Are you ready to leave this farce behind?" His words carried a chilling promise.

A shared glance passed between Vance, Malachi, and Noah. In a heartbeat, Vance's resolve sharpened. "Let's end this."

Gunfire shattered the night, bullets piercing the air.

A shadowy blanket enveloped Brooks as the gunfire ceased.

With a swift motion, he swiped his hand, dispelling the darkness and revealing his arm, now a smoky black.

"My turn," he intoned darkly.

With a decisive downward swipe, a streak of shadow lashed out, slicing through an agent with brutal precision.

The agent's body split apart, the halves falling to the ground in a gruesome display, the air heavy with the scent of blood and charred flesh.

The agent's eyes widened in stunned realization as Brooks flickered behind him.

The first agent, with metallic skin, charged, only to be crushed by shadowy tendrils. Two others attacked; one unleashed bolts of electricity, the other manipulated the marble floor. Brooks vanished into shadows, reappearing to slice through them, leaving scorched remains.

An agent erected an energy barrier, but Brooks' shadow spear pierced it easily, leaving the agent lifeless.

Two more agents made their move, one with incredible speed, the other blinding flashes of light.

Brooks absorbed the light, ensnaring the speedster until he was still.

The telepath tried to infiltrate Brooks' mind, but the darkness broke her, and a shadow's arc swiftly ended her.

The last two agents launched a desperate assault—one creating a whirlwind, the other hurling ice shards. Brooks, unfazed, commanded shadows to swallow them whole.

Brooks stood amidst the devastation, a twisted smile on his lips. "You danced beautifully," he taunted, the shadows retreating, leaving only silence in the once-splendid ballroom.

As Brooks wreaked havoc, Vance stood firm, his gaze sweeping over his beleaguered men.

Malachi placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Uncle," he said, his voice low and steady, "just say the word.

With purpose, Vance turned to face his team—Malachi, Jermaine, Fabian, and Noah—his expression a mix of authority and unyielding belief in his men.

Their eyes bore into him, seeking guidance amidst the storm.

"Listen, we're far from finished," Vance called out, his voice unwavering.

Brooks' gaze fell on Malachi, his cherished godsons. "You've been like sons to me, your strength and loyalty my true anchors," he said, warmth threading through his voice.

Scanning the ravaged ballroom, he asked, "Where's Miguel?"

Noah, stepping through the debris, replied casually, "He got tossed outside."

Vance shrugged it off with a chuckle. "He'll live," he assured, his tone light.

Turning to Jermaine, Fabian, and Noah, he said, "You earned my respect by standing and fighting alongside my boys when it mattered most."

He paused meaningfully. "But remember, courage means little if we don't survive this. This isn't our end; it's a test, and together we will see tomorrow."

Around them, the city descended further into chaos, echoing the fierce battle they faced. Malachi hesitated, glancing at Vance. "But, uncle —"

"No arguments!" Vance interjected. "This is it. I have to do this. You need to regroup and protect those who can't fight back right now."

Vance's hand rested on Malachi's shoulders, a moment of connection trying to push through the violence surrounding them.

The smile he managed was sincere, yet overshadowed by the weight of his decision—a smile Malachi recognized from their days of recovery.

"Once this is over, we'll be back on that field, playing like we always said we would. Now go—look after the others."

As Vance faced his destiny, Malachi lingered, his mind flooding with memories—days in the hospital where Vance's visits had become his anchor, solidifying their unspoken bond.

Noah gripped Malachi's arm, pulling him along. "You heard the man. Let's go, bro."

Malachi took a deep breath, bracing for what lay ahead. Vance was more than a leader in this battle; he was their beacon of courage and loyalty, inspiring them to believe in something greater.

Resolute, they turned away, prepared to fulfill their part in Vance's plan.

To be continued…