Chapter 7 - Ch. 7

Azrael stumbled through the dense forest, his body a canvas of bruises and blood. His hair, once neatly tied, now hung in tangled strands, some torn halfway from the knot, others falling loose in matted clumps. Blood dripped from his nose, staining his cracked lips. His shirt clung to his body, torn in places from the rough brush, and his legs ached with every step. The Harvester had always prided himself on being swift, precise, and untraceable. But today, he was neither.

He was cornered, battered, and exhausted. This was no movie, no fantasy where a lone man could take on a hundred armed men and come out victorious. In the real world, an assassin could slip past a hundred unsuspecting targets—but a hundred men armed with guns? That was a different kind of hell.

Azrael's breath came in ragged gasps, but his resolve was unshaken. He still had vengeance burning in his chest, a fire that would not be quenched. He could feel it now, deep inside him, like a dark river flowing through his veins. His heart hammered against his ribcage. Keep moving. Stay alive.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat and the first three buttons of his shirt, feeling the cool breeze on his bare chest. He quickly checked his ammo—two spare clips, enough for a couple of clean reloads. That should do. With swift precision, he slid a silencer from his back pocket and attached it to his handgun. A quick glance upward revealed a tall oak nearby, its limbs thick with leaves. Perfect.

Azrael scaled the tree with practiced ease, his limbs moving fluidly despite the pain in his knee. He perched atop a thick branch, hidden among the leaves, listening intently for any signs of his pursuers.

"Spread out," a voice commanded from below.

The men, confident in their numbers, fanned out beneath the tree, unaware that their quarry was watching them from above. Azrael's body stilled, his breathing controlled. He had always been a patient predator. His gaze swept over the men, locking onto one figure who strayed too far from the group.

A single shot rang out. The man dropped with a thud. The others scrambled, panicked and disoriented. They had no idea where the shot had come from. Azrael had already moved, climbing down the tree in one swift motion, his feet barely making a sound as he landed softly on the forest floor. He slipped behind a thick patch of decaying leaves, just in time for the next man to pass by.

Before he could react, Azrael shot him. The bullet struck cleanly in the side of his head. The man crumpled to the ground, his body silent in the leaf-strewn underbrush. Azrael dragged him quickly under the carpet of leaves, leaving no trace behind.

The remaining men were in a panic now, their shouts piercing the silence. They were looking for him, but they couldn't see him. They knew he was close. Azrael smiled to himself. Let them search. They won't find me.

But then, just as he was lining up his next shot , a flicker of sunlight reflected off his belt. The reflection was brief, but it was enough. One of his pursuers had seen him.

Azrael pulled the trigger, but too late. The man dove in front of his comrade, taking the bullet in his chest. Azrael cursed under his breath.

Damn it. How did he see that?

A barrage of bullets suddenly whizzed through the air, splintering the tree Azrael had just vacated. Branches and leaves rained down as the gunfire tore through the air. Azrael didn't hesitate. He leapt from the tree, the sharp pain in his knee jolting through him as he landed. His body screamed, but his instincts kicked in. He moved, fast—faster than the pain, faster than his dwindling strength.

Ahead, the cliff's edge loomed. There was no choice. He couldn't outrun them. He ran, reached the edge, and without a second thought, jumped.

The cold river below rushed up to meet him, swallowing him whole. The water was frigid, its force strong enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Azrael's body sank as he tried to orient himself, but his pursuers weren't done. They opened fire again, their bullets slapping the surface of the water, missing him by mere inches.

Azrael swam hard, pushing through the current with everything he had. Bullets were slower in the water, but even so, the sting of one bullet grazing his knee sent a fresh wave of pain through his body. A second shot struck his shoulder. His movements slowed, his strength draining rapidly.