Murmurs rose in a wave around them, people turning towards one another, pointing, gossiping—and Wilford held out his hands, gazing at the people. The sight of Dark, passed out on the floor, stunned them.

"It's okay!" Wilford shouted, grinning. Trying to tame the crowd. "He's okay, he's just had too much to—"

"YOU!" yelled a voice.

Wilford spun around.

Detective Abe pushed through the crowd with Agent Nelson close behind, and he looked furious. Wilford's grin faltered at the sight of him.

Ohhhh shit, he thought.

"Abeee," laughed Wilford, splaying out his hands. "How's it going, old friend—"

"Enough shit, Warfstache!" Abe yelled. "Put your hands in the air!"

Wil jumped, and he glanced at Dark's body, at Abe, back at Dark. At the people murmuring around with wide eyes.

And realized what this looked like.

Both agents reached for their guns, closing in on him.

He had two choices.

He could put his hands up and try to explain that this wasn't his doing, that Dark just dropped—while knowing the FBI would never believe him.

Or he could grab Dark's body, drag him with him, and sprint out to freedom.

"Put your goddamn hands in the air!" Abe yelled, pulling out his gun. "Now!"

The party swelled with cries, falling back. Amy cursed and pulled out her gun, aiming. It was a clear shot, but there were too many civilians. Too many moving pieces. Casualties.

"Do it, Warfstache!" she ordered, stepping forward. "On your knees!"

Wilford chose the latter.

He scooped Dark's body into his arms and surged for the door.

A gunshot echoed through the building.

Screams pierced the air, and chaos broke out. People ran towards the doors. Flooded the streets. Gave Wilford the perfect cover.

Abe raced out the doors and searched over bobbing heads, catching a flash of pink.

"There—there!" he yelled, pointing with his gun.

Amy sprinted, dodging civilians. Cold whipped past her hair, chilled her skin. Her heart pounded fast, breaths tearing through her lungs, the adrenaline fueling her to go faster, faster, faster.

Wilford hobbled up ahead. He glanced over his shoulders and met eyes with Amy, who charged towards him at full force.

She'd catch him at this rate.

She aimed the gun, the sights bobbing as she ran.

Just a bit closer—

"Stop or I'll shoot!" she yelled, voice covered by the screams.

Abe lagged behind. He aimed, pulled the trigger, and the bullet sparked against the sidewalk. A warning shot.

Wilford jumped and laughed aloud.

A car engine roared through the city, and headlights raced towards the chase. Tires screeched, and smoke flew up as it whipped around. The car door flew open.

"INSIDE!" yelled Host.

Wilford tossed Dark into the backseat and leapt inside.

"They're getting AWAY, NELSON!" cried Abe.

"You think I don't know that?" she screamed.

Jim slammed on the gas, and the tires slid, smoked, and the car launched forward. Wilford's body slammed into the seat, and he burst into laughter.

"WOO!" he yelled, sloughing to the side when Jim rounded a turn. "I sure do love a chase, boys!"

Gunshots clipped the Cadillac, and they all ducked. The car swerved.

"This wasn't part of the plan..." said Host, pinching the bridge of his nose. The engine roared as they sped away, twisting in and out of traffic.

Host glanced behind them—caught Abe throwing his jacket on the ground—and huffed, turning back into the car. He caught a flash of white... the lump of a body... and he stilled, brows furrowing as his eyes trailed over to the source of the color.

There was Dark Edwards, curled in the backseat... unconscious.

"Did you... DRUG HIM?" cried Host with dismay.

Wilford held up his hands and shook his head, unable to help but grin. "I didn't, I swear!" he yelled over the chaos. "He just blacked out!"

"I find that very hard to believe!" Host shouted. "When you said you'd have Edwards by the end of tonight, I wasn't expecting this!"

"I didn't do it!" Wilford laughed.

Host cursed, and he ran his hands over his face. Their bodies slammed to the side when Jim swerved around a corner. The tires screeched. Cars honked and blared. Pedestrians jumped out of the way.

"Who were those people?" Jim shouted over the roar of the engine, yanking the wheel. Their bodies slammed to the other side of the car.

Wilford clutched onto Dark's body and chuckled, meeting Jim's eyes through the rearview mirror. Buildings sped by in a blur of steel and lights.

"I hate to say," said Wilford, "but it's my little admirer, and your greatest enemy."

Jim's eyes flew open. "No... him?" he breathed, jaw hardening. "The one who—"

Host hit his head against the headrest and groaned. "Detective Abe!" he spat. "And he's got a partner, too. That's one extra person we have to worry about."

"I dunno," slurred Wilford, leaning forward. "The last time I saw him, I ruined his whole reputation. The FBI thinks he's a clown."

"Yeah," cursed Host. "So why was he here, then?"

Police sirens wailed in the air, and the air in the car went tight. Wilford glanced up at Host, who went still. Jim kept swerving in and out of traffic, his brows furrowed with concentration.

"Don't worry," he said. "We're almost home."

"No, that's not it," breathed Host, turning around in his seat. His gaze trailed over to Dark's unconscious figure in the backseat, and he pointed at him. "The only reason Detective Abe would be allowed on the field again," he muttered, "is if Edwards hired him."

Wilford's brows furrowed, and he burst into laughter, tipping his head back. Host sent him a glare.

"Him?" cackled Wilford. "FBI?"

Host narrowed his eye, and Wilford shook his head, patting the back of the carseat.

"No, no, no," he said, smirking. "You have one chat with this guy, and you'll know he's not the type for law enforcement." He leaned back, draped an arm over the backseat, and clapped a hand on Dark's side. "Man like him, he opposes that kind of crowd. You know how businessmen are."

"Rotten to the core," Host said with disgust. The city began to peel away, along with the blaring noise. An engine roared somewhere in the distance.

"Well—if that's the case," said Jim, and the car slowed to a stop, a few blocks away from the mansion. "Then who's behind us?"

He pointed in the rearview mirror, and Wil and Host turned around, looking out the back. Headlights blinded them, speeding right towards them.

They weren't stopping.

"What are you, stupid?!" Wil yelled. "GO, GO! He's gonna run into u—"

The car slammed into the back of the Cadillac, and they lurched forward, shouting. Metal screeched, glass shattered. The Cadillac whipped to the side and spun, tires screeching. Smoke hissing.

"Nooo!" Wilford cried. "My baby!"

"Screw your car!" Host screamed. "This guy's trying to kill us!"

The Cadillac rocked to a stop, and Wilford grabbed the seats, trying to steady himself. Headlights pierced through the front window, and an engine revved to life with a predatory growl. The smoke parted and revealed a menacing black car, with its lights glinting and bright.

"Ohhh, God," said Jim, clutching the wheel. "They're not finished."

"Is that a fucking Maserati—?!"

The engine roared, and the Mas surged towards them. Jim yanked the gear shift and sped backwards, looking out the back window.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Jim yelled, speeding towards a dead end. "Brace yourselves!"

Jim yanked the wheel, and the tires screeched. Host and Wil knocked to the side, and the car kept speeding backwards, down another stretch of road. The Maserati sped towards them, gaining on them with ease. The Cadillac wouldn't be able to keep up.

"Go to the house!" Wilford shouted, holding onto Dark's body. Made sure he was okay.

"What?" cried Jim, swerving on the road. "Are you crazy?!" The tire clipped the ditch, and the car bounced.

A hand shot out the Maserati's window, aiming at the Cadillac. Host fumbled with his trench coat and ducked.

"He's got a gun!" he yelled.

Gunshots pierced the air, and bullets clipped their car. Shattered the window. Wind rushed inside with a deafening roar.

Wilford ducked and draped himself over Dark's body, cursing.

"Who the fuck is this guy?!" he shouted. Glass sprayed over them, and he grunted, shielding himself. The attacker didn't stop, hailing bullets on them. Jim swerved, ducking, trying to control the car without a good view.

"It can't be the Detective!" Host yelled. He pulled out a gun from his trench and threw it towards Wilford. He caught it.

"Maybe his partner?" Wilford countered, cocking the gun. He wished he had his golden revolver. As tiny as it was, it did him wonders.

"Could be," said Host, pulling out another gun and cocking it. "But FBI can't attack like this without consequences."

"So a rogue," said Wilford, narrowing his eyes. "Well, if that's the case, it'll be less legal trouble when I kill them."

Gunshots clipped the car again, and they ducked, trying to avoid the spray.

"Back to the house, Jim!" Wilford ordered, climbing into the front seat with Host. Host grimaced and scooted over, leaning out the broken window and aiming at the Maserati.

"A-are you sure?" Jim cried. "That's the opposite w—"

"NOW!" Wilford barked.

Jim swerved, and he yanked the gearshift. He slammed on the gas, and the car lurched forward, screeching around the Maserati and down the road.

Host turned around and bared his teeth, wind whipping past his hair, roaring in his ears. The Maserati screeched to a halt, and he aimed, emptying his magazine on it. Gunshots echoed in the night, and the windows of the Mas shattered.

The engine rev, rev, revved, and the Mas spun around, tires screeching.

"Dammit," cursed Host, dipping back into the car. He reloaded his gun. "This son of a bitch won't die, will he?"

Headlights lit up the insides of the car, and the Maserati raced towards them, the engine roaring louder than the wind whipping past them. Wilford groaned and motioned for Host's gun.

"Put the hood down!" he shouted, grabbing Host's gun.

"What?!" Jim yelled over the wind. "You've gotta be kidding—"

Host threw open the latches and punched the button to undo the soft top. The hood caught the wind and flew back, collapsing against the trunk. The car swerved at the force.

"I hope you know what you're doing!" Host yelled, ducking.

Wilford stood up on the console and aimed both guns at the Maserati, wind whipping past his hair, his clothes. He aimed down the sights and grinned.

"Always," he chuckled.

He fired without mercy, targeting the driver's side. Windows shattered, a headlight went out. The Maserati swerved, and Wilford cackled, stumbling to keep his balance.

"Got 'im!" he yelled.

A gunshot rang out, and Wilford shouted, diving into the backseat for cover. He peered over the seat, and now that the front window of the Maserati was shattered, he could see the driver. A man who looked like Dark, cuts bleeding and teeth bared.

Mark.

And by God, he looked furious. Filled with a determination that stunned Wilford.

"Ohhh my," Wilford chuckled, aiming both guns over the headrests. "A rogue, indeed."

He fired his guns, and Mark ducked, the car veering. By his lack of returning fire, Wilford knew he was out of ammo. And there was no one else to reload for him.

Just one man, following them straight into Wilford's territory.

Jim swerved, and their bodies knocked side to side. The car cut into the mansion driveway, and he honked the horn, alerting the others. The sound blared through the sky, loud and piercing. But not as loud as the roar of the engine behind them.

"Out, OUT!" Wilford yelled. He grabbed Dark's body and jumped out of the Cadillac, stumbling onto the driveway. Jim and Host leapt out the sides, surging away from the car.

The mansion doors flew open just as the Maserati swerved into the driveway, headlights blinding. It collided into the Cadillac, and the car spun and shrieked, debris flying everywhere. The Maserati screamed to a stop, tires burning a cloud of smoke into the air.

Wilford's men ran out of the mansion, and they streamed around the car crash, staying close to Wilford, Host, and Jim.

Wilford hurried towards one of the men named Chase—a slender man with faded green hair—and handed Dark to him.

"Hold him for me, will you?" slurred Wilford.

Chase floundered for a response, and Wilford shoved Dark into his arms. Chase swayed and clutched onto his body, gazing down at him with wide eyes. The other men and women brought out their guns, aiming at the obliterated Maserati.

Wilford took a deep breath, and he walked towards the car, gun aimed and finger on the trigger, the other hanging at his side.

Glass crunched, the driver coughed, and Wilford narrowed his eyes, holding the gun tighter. His men crowded around the car—circled it—and bristled, their guns shifting and clicking. Jim lingered in the back and caught his breath while Host stayed close to Wilford.

The Maserati door opened, and Mark stumbled out on his hands and knees, clutching the floor. Blood dripped from his face and onto the ground—most likely from the spray of glass. Or, hoped Wilford, a bullet.

Mark swayed, and he stumbled onto his feet, knocking into the side of the car. He leaned against it and swung his gun around, taking in his predicament through blurry eyes.

He was surrounded.

Wilford's men raised their guns on Mark, and Wilford held up a hand, inhaling a steady breath. He liked this—these moments, when the chaos settled. Not settled in the way that meant it was resolved, but in the way that meant his next decision could revive the chaos, or suppress it.

Wilford carefully walked forward, his heels clicking, and Mark pointed his gun at him, panting.

"Get any closer, and I'll shoot you," Mark heaved, hand trembling.

Wilford's eyes went half-lidded, and he smirked, holding up his hands, the guns hanging limply on his fingers. "Oh no," he mocked, voice morphed in the way one would talk to a baby. "I'm so scared."

Mark heaved for breath, and he backed against the car. "I-I'll shoot, I swear!"

Wilford chuckled, and he pointed a gun at Mark, letting the other one hang at his side. Mark flinched, trembling.

"Go ahead," breathed Wilford, eyes alight. "I'd like to see you try without any ammo."

Mark shuddered, and he glanced around, searching the crowd of armed men.

"Where's Edwards," he demanded, glaring at Wilford. When he rose a brow, anger rose in him. "God dammit, where is he?!"

Mark lunged forward, and Wilford sidestepped. He grabbed Mark by his hair and threw him backwards, down to the ground. Mark shouted and fumbled, but before he could stand, Wilford stomped a foot onto his chest and pinned him into the ground.

The air left his lungs, mouth going agape. Wilford dug his heel into Mark's chest and leaned his weight into him, eyes dark.

"Who are you?" he said evenly, lazily pointing the gun at him.

Mark scratched down Wilford's ankle, trying to pry his foot off. Hit him hard, yelling.

Wilford snarled, and he slammed his foot down, cracking ribs. Mark cried out and kicked and struggled, his feet scuffing on the concrete. Unable to get any leverage.

"Who... are... you?" Wilford seethed, bending over to get a better look at Mark's face, which was twisted in pain.

Mark gasped for air, every breath agonizing—

"Mark—" he answered. "Mr. E-Edward's—f-fucking—" He bared his teeth. "—bodyguard."

Wilford's brows rose, and he glanced at the men around him, scoffing out a laugh.

"You hear that?" he said. "This man—Mr. Edwards' bodyguard?"

He glanced down at him and smirked, eyes narrowing with amusement.

"Well, you sure do a lame job at that."

The men rose with laughter, and Mark growled. He dug his nails into Wilford's leg and pulled, tearing skin, breaking blood—but he didn't stop there. He brought up his legs, kicked out—and knocked one of the guns out of Wilford's grip.

The gun skidded across the concrete, and Wilford glowered. He rose his foot, about to stomp again—

Mark grabbed his leg and pulled down—stumbled up, ignored the pain flooding his body—and tackled Wilford to the ground. They fell with a thud, and Wilford twisted, gun aimed.

Mark rose a fist, and Wilford pulled the trigger, clipping Mark on the shoulder. The gunshot echoed, and Mark fell back with a cry, clutching his wound. Blood slipped past his fingers, and he struggled to his feet, slipping on blood.

"Stay down," Wilford growled, pointing the gun at him as he stood up.

Mark gasped for breath, and he collapsed to the floor, clutching his shoulder. Pain flooded his body, infected his insides. He bared his teeth and glared up at Wilford with all the hate he could muster.

He hated feeling this way. So helpless. Unable to do anything, unable to save Dark. He'd trained since he was a kid to stay strong—to protect those who needed protecting. To protect those he loved.

But he couldn't do anything, not when he was outnumbered. If he tried to act out, it'd do more harm than good. If he were killed right now, then he wouldn't be able to rescue Dark. Wouldn't be able to anything, ever, except wait out whatever Wilford had planned. He had to be patient, had to stand down.

And that tore him apart.

"You bastard—" Mark gasped. He leaned forward and reached for Wil. "If you don't let Edwards go, I'll—"

Wilford's men closed in around them, aiming their guns at Mark. Tension coiled in the air, growing with the hiss of smoke from the car crash behind them.

Wilford smiled and stepped forward, his gun pointed between Mark's eyes.

"You know what happens, when people try to hurt me?" breathed Wilford, tilting his head. "When they try to hurt my family?"

He pressed the gun against Mark's forehead, and he cowered, breaths fast. The metal was still hot from the earlier gunshot, and it burned into his skin.

"I do more than just kill them," he whispered, eyes alight. Mark met his gaze and shuddered. "I tear their lives apart, from the inside out. And you wanna know what my favorite part is when I do that, kid?"

He tipped Mark's head back with the gun and stared him in the eye, gaze merciless.

"I love the way they beg for me to kill them," breathed Wilford. "When they've reached their wits end. When they can't handle all the pain I've caused."

Shivers ran down Mark's spine, and he swallowed, the gun blurring out of focus as he stared Wilford in the eye. All of his fears were confirmed when he met his gaze. All those warnings and case files that described Wilford as inhuman.

Wilford's finger shifted over the trigger, and Mark screwed his eyes shut, bracing for the worst.

"I should kill you right now..." breathed Wilford, voice menacing. "You fucked up my car, you violated my territory..."

Mark heaved for breath, fingers digging into his shoulder, blood painting his skin red. He couldn't die, not now. Not when Wilford had Dark hostage.

"But I won't," said Wil.

Wilford pulled the gun back, and Mark sucked in a breath, his eyes fluttering open. His brows furrowed when Wil lowered the gun, letting the weapon hang at his side. The men around them didn't follow after—kept their guns pointed at Mark, keeping him surrounded.

Wilford tipped his chin up and stared Mark in the eyes, the contact sending shivers down the bodyguard's spine.

"I want you to send a message to Detective Abe and his partner," breathed Wilford, shadows crossing his face. He let the gun hang at his side—a constant reminder of what he was capable of. Of what he could do.

"I-I don't even know who that is—"

Wilford stepped forward, grabbed Mark's shoulder, and dug his thumb into the bullet wound. Pain laced up Mark's body, and he cried out, clutching Wil's arm, trying to pry him off. Wilford only pushed harder, blood and muscle squelching under his thumb.

"Look at me, Mark," breathed Wilford, voice dangerous, face close. "Look at me."

Mark gasped for breath, nails digging into Wilford's arm. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he bowed his head, gritting his teeth.

Wilford pressed his gun against Mark's jaw and tipped his chin up, forcing him to look at him. Mark bared his teeth and let out a strangled sound, shaking against Wilford's grip.

"You go to the FBI..." breathed Wilford. "And you tell them to stay out of this."

He tugged Mark closer, and the bodyguard struggled, seething with rage.

"You tell them... that if they try and interfere—" breathed Wilford, "—that if they get too close—" He pointed towards the men around them with his gun, and Chase stepped forward, holding Dark's limp body in his arms. "—I will hurt him."

Mark's eyes slid over to the man holding Dark, and his heart dropped, his face going pale. He jerked against Wilford's hold, struggling to get up, to run towards Dark and save him.

"You try and get him back," hissed Wil, "and I kill him."

Wilford grabbed Mark harder, his thumb sinking into his wound. Mark let out another cry, pain fogging his head, his senses—until it was all he could feel.

"Am I clear?" breathed Wil, knuckles white over Mark's shoulder.

Mark trembled, and he struggled on the floor, slipping on blood.

"I swear—" he gasped, wrestling in Wil's grip. "I swear, if you hurt him—!"

Wilford shoved the gun in Mark's mouth, and he shouted, eyes going wide. His nostrils flared as he heaved for breath, the metal hot and rancid against his tongue.

"You do what I said..." whispered Wilford, "and you won't have to worry about that." He pushed the gun further into Mark's mouth, and he gagged, jerking in Wilford's grip. "So, let me say this again..." His grip shifted on the gun, and he leaned closer, expression dangerous.

"Am... I... clear?"

Mark's chest heaved, and he glanced in Dark's direction, back at Wilford, down at the gun in his mouth. His brows furrowed, and he forced himself to nod. To comply.

Wilford narrowed his eyes, finger flexing over the trigger. He considered Mark for a long moment, gaze piercing into his—and with a chuckle, he shoved Mark away.

Mark fell against the floor and clutched his shoulder, hissing with pain.

"One of you!" Wilford called out, waving his gun. "Escort this bodyguard out of here. He's ruining the place with his stench."

A woman parted through the crowd, slung her M4 over her shoulder, and grabbed Mark by his wounded arm. Mark cried out, his feet scuffing as the woman forced him up.

Wilford smirked, aimed his gun at Mark's foot, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the air, and Mark cried out, falling to the ground.

"Fuck!" he screamed.

"That's for the car," cooed Wilford.

Mark struggled for breath, and the woman dragged him away, leaving a trail of his blood on the driveway. Wilford smirked and watched him go through half-lidded eyes, twirling the gun in his finger.

"Oh, and Mark!" he called out, and the woman stopped. Mark glanced over his shoulder and stumbled, face contorted in pain. When they met eyes, Wilford winked. "Tell Abe it's a shame he's not so agile anymore."

Mark grimaced, and the woman led him away, towards a junky car in the garage. Wilford turned back towards the others and motioned some of them.

"You lot," he said, "get this shit settled." He waved towards the smoking car crash, then gestured over Chase, considering Dark in his arms.

"You, Host. Come with me," said Wilford, waving about his gun. "We need to make sure Edwards isn't dead. And, more importantly—find out who did this."

...

Thank you so much for reading! AaAAA I had fun writing these action sequences, LMAO, it's still a bit rough and I know I have lottssss of room for improvement but I hope you enjoyed it ;)

Have a wonderful day!

Love, Vic xoxo