Yang Wei's POV
The night exploded into a symphony of chaos—gunfire cracking like thunder, headlights slashing through the darkness, the ditch water splashing cold against my legs as I crouched low, my pistol steady in my hands. Xie Liang's ambush had caught us off guard, but I'd been a fool to think he'd slink away after Shanghai. The man was a viper—wounded, cornered, and striking harder because of it. And now, as I watched him dart from that truck, battered but alive, shouting into a radio as he bolted for the water, I knew we were teetering on the edge of something bigger than I'd feared.
"Cover them!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the din as I fired at the figures spilling from the truck—Beijing muscle, not Xie Liang's usual thugs, their movements too crisp, too coordinated. My bullet caught one in the shoulder, spinning him back, but more took his place, their rifles spitting fire into the ditch where my family—my family—huddled.
