Chapter 6

The gunfire had betrayed Jason's position, the echoes of his last shots ringing through the cavernous mall like a beacon. The remaining Russian gunmen, their boots pounding the polished marble, swarmed toward the second floor. Jason shoveled the last bites of cold spaghetti into his mouth, the tangy marinara sauce barely registering as his survival instincts screamed. He gripped the M4A1 carbine, its weight a reassuring anchor, and sprinted toward his next ambush point, his heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and grim determination.

He shoved open the heavy steel door to the mall's emergency stairwell, the hinges groaning in protest. The passage was a black void, swallowed by darkness except for the faint green glow of the exit sign overhead, casting eerie shadows on the concrete walls. The air was stale, heavy with the scent of dust and old paint, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Jason moved silently, his boots barely whispering against the steps as he climbed to the third floor. He pressed his back against the cool, rough wall of the stairwell, his breath steady but shallow, every sense attuned to the hunt. The M4A1 rested against his shoulder, its barrel cold and ready, as he waited for his prey to stumble into his trap.

Thirty seconds ticked by, each one stretching into eternity. Then, the stairwell echoed with the unmistakable sound of footsteps—heavy, deliberate, and multiple. Four distinct sets, by his count, their boots scuffing the concrete in a cautious rhythm. 'Smart bastards,' he thought, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. The Russians had learned their lesson—pairs were easy pickings, ripe for slaughter. They were grouping up now, banking on numbers for survival. It wouldn't save them.

The group reached the second-floor landing, their silhouettes faintly visible in the dim light. One of them, more cautious than the rest, swept a flashlight beam up the stairs toward the third floor, the light cutting through the darkness like a blade. Jason froze, his body melding with the shadows, his breath held as the beam passed inches from his position. Satisfied, the Russians turned, their attention shifting to the second-floor door, whispering in hushed, urgent tones about how to breach it.

Jason seized the moment. He descended the stairs on tiptoe, his movements fluid and silent, a predator stalking oblivious prey. The four Russians stood with their backs to him, oblivious, their rifles lowered as they debated their next move. The darkness cloaked him, his black balaclava and tactical gear blending into the stairwell's gloom.

'Now.'

He raised the M4A1 and unleashed hell. The rifle roared, muzzle flashes illuminating the cramped stairwell like a strobe light. Bullets tore through the Russians before they could react, their bodies jerking as rounds punched through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed in crimson arcs, painting the walls and pooling on the steps. Severed limbs and shattered bone mixed with the gore, the air thick with the nauseating stench of blood and cordite.

[Ding! Eliminated four mafia members. Gained 400 Villain Points. Current progress: 750/2000.]

To Jason, a veteran of countless bloodbaths, this was just another day at the office—a gruesome appetizer before the main course. He swapped out the empty magazine with a fresh one, the click of the new clip locking into place a satisfying sound. Kneeling beside the mangled corpses, he rummaged through their gear, his fingers slick with their blood. He pocketed two fragmentation grenades.

As he stood, a low hum broke the silence—the telltale whine of an elevator starting up. His head snapped toward the sound, his senses razor-sharp. He followed the noise, his boots silent on the marble floor, until he reached the elevator bank. The digital display glowed, showing the car descending from the fifth floor to the first, then starting its ascent again. A cold, predatory grin spread across his face. 'Got you.'

He pulled the pin on one of the grenades, the metal warm from his grip, and waited. As the elevator doors began to part, revealing a sliver of light, he tossed both grenades inside with a flick of his wrist. The Russians inside barely had time to register the threat before twin explosions rocked the confined space, the blasts muffled but deadly.

[Ding! Eliminated two mafia members. Gained 200 Villain Points. Current progress: 950/2000.]

Jason moved to enter the elevator, eager to scavenge more gear, but the stairwell door burst open. Two figures emerged, and a familiar voice bellowed, "Jason's there! Shoot him!" It was Anatoly, his voice thick with rage and desperation.

The Russian beside him raised an automatic rifle, unleashing a hail of bullets. Jason's reflexes, honed by his newly enhanced Agility, kicked in. He dropped into a crouch and rolled, the floor cold against his battered body as he dove for cover behind a nearby kiosk. Bullets shredded the spot where he'd stood, splintering wood and glass in a violent storm.

"Jason! You're fucking dead!" Anatoly screamed, his voice cracking with manic glee. The loss of so many men had pushed him over the edge, and now he hoisted a Gatling gun, its six barrels gleaming ominously. With a guttural roar, he opened fire, the weapon's deafening brrrrt filling the mall with a torrent of 7.62mm rounds.

The sheer firepower was apocalyptic. Bullets tore through the kiosk, reducing it to splinters, the air thick with dust and the screech of shredding metal. No cover could withstand that onslaught—everything was paper-thin against the Gatling's wrath. Jason scrambled, his heart pounding, ducking and weaving through the hailstorm, his body low as he sprinted for new cover.

The second Russian activated a laser sight, the red dot dancing across the mall, tracking Jason's frantic movements. The pair's teamwork was flawless—one suppressed with Gatling's relentless barrage, while the other aimed for precision kills. Jason's lungs burned, his wounded arm throbbing as he dodged, using overturned tables and shattered displays to block the onslaught. Finally, he slid behind a massive concrete pillar, its surface rough against his back, offering a fleeting moment of safety.

But the Gatling didn't stop. The pillar shuddered under the barrage, 7.62mm armor-piercing rounds chiseling away at its surface, carving out fist-sized craters. Dust and debris rained down, the air choking with the scent of pulverized concrete. In seconds, the pillar would be breached, and Jason would be exposed.

His mind raced, survival hanging by a thread. A desperate idea sparked, ripped straight from Hollywood's playbook—the diving shootout, a staple of every action flick. It was insane, theatrical, and untested in reality, but he was out of options. "Fuck it," He growled, teeth gritted. He gripped the M4A1, crouched low, and gathered his strength, his legs coiling like springs.

With a primal yell, he launched himself from behind the pillar, diving through the air like a diver off a board. Time slowed, his enhanced senses locking onto his targets. In midair, he raised the rifle, his aim steady despite the chaos, and squeezed the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A storm of bullets erupted, his shots precise even as his body hurtled toward the ground. A figure in the distance staggered, collapsing under the onslaught. Jason hit the floor hard, rolling to keep firing, emptying the magazine in a final, desperate burst.

Click. Click.

The rifle went dry. He scrambled back to cover, his breath ragged as he slapped in a fresh magazine, the motion automatic despite the pain coursing through him.

[Ding! Eliminated one mafia member. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current progress: 1050/2000.]

[Ding! Injured Anatoly (plot character). Gained 100 Villain Points. Current progress: 1150/2000.]

Jason pumped his fist, a surge of triumph cutting through the pain. 'Hell yeah!' That ridiculous, movie-star stunt had worked, nailing targets fifty meters away. 'Maybe God really is on my side,' he thought, a grin breaking through his grim focus.

Gatling's roar had ceased, replaced by Anatoly's agonized screams, his voice raw and piercing. Jason hesitated, his finger hovering over the trigger. Killing Anatoly now would be easy, but a better plan was formed. He crouched low, slipping through the shadows to the fourth floor, finding a concealed vantage point with a clear view of Anatoly's writhing form.

He'd use the bastard as bait. Anatoly's screams were a siren call, drawing the remaining Russians like moths to a flame. Sure enough, they came running, clustering around Vladimir in a protective ring as they hurried toward their fallen comrade.

"Brother, you okay?" Vladimir called, his voice tight with concern.

"My legs! The bastard shot through my fucking legs!" Anatoly wailed, his voice echoing through the empty mall.

"Shit! Did you get him?" Vladimir demanded.

'Get me? Keep dreaming,' Jason thought, his lips curling into a sneer. He steadied the M4A1, his enhanced Firearms Mastery making the shot feel like second nature. He held his breath, aimed, and fired.

Bang!

Another Russian dropped, blood spraying as the bullet found its mark.

[Ding! Eliminated one mafia member. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current progress: 1250/2000.]

The Russians recoiled, panic seizing them as they scrambled to shield Vladimir, dragging him back toward the stairwell. "FUCK YOU, Jason! FUCK YOU!" Anatoly's voice was a desperate, broken howl, his rage mingling with pain.

Even a fool like him had figured out Jason's game—using his screams to lure the others. "Brother, don't come! Get out of here!" He shouted, his voice cracking.

"No! I won't leave you!" Vladimir called from the stairwell, his tone defiant but strained. "Jason, let's make a deal. Let me take Anatoly and go."

Jason, perched at his vantage point, barked a laugh. "A deal? You blew up my fucking apartment, and your brother tried to kill me twice. You've got some balls talking about a deal."

"Fine, it's my fault—no, it's Kingpin's fault. We're all his pawns. We should be uniting to take him down, not killing each other!" Vladimir's voice carried a desperate edge, a man grasping at straws.

Jason's laugh was cold, cutting. "Don't worry. Once I'm done with you, Kingpin's next."

"Please, Jason," Vladimir pleaded, his composure cracking. "Anatoly's my only family. I can't lose him."

"Then come get him, you coward!" Jason taunted. He sighted Anatoly's prone form, aiming low, and fired a single shot into a sensitive spot.

"AAAGH!" Anatoly's scream was a gut-wrenching wail, reverberating through the mall, a sound of pure, unfiltered agony.