BIA Ch. 135

Isaiah pulled the trigger with an expressionless face, anticipating the familiar, thrilling recoil at his fingertips.

However.

— Click

With a faint sound, the trigger yielded limply. Naturally, nothing fired from the muzzle.

He was out of bullets.

Isaiah clicked his tongue, ejected the empty magazine, and threw it to the floor. Mickey, who had been watching breathlessly beside him, quickly handed over a new magazine. As soon as Isaiah loaded the magazine, he returned the bolt to its position and shouldered the rifle. He immediately aimed where Manny had been, but, as expected, the man had disappeared.

Instead of wasting time searching for Manny, Isaiah shot one of Chester’s subordinates nearby. There was no time to hesitate. Manny must have realized the source of the bullets raining down from afar by now. Since he had looked directly this way, he would have noticed Isaiah was shooting from the Taten Building. Even if he didn’t know the exact floor, the gun barrel would be visible through a window if he got closer, and he’d soon figure out the room number.

Considering the traffic at this hour, they would arrive in 5 minutes, no, 4 minutes. He had to kill as many as possible before then.

Isaiah first killed those who were unharmed and trying to get into cars. In the circular world shown by the scope, they looked like a swarm of insects fleeing in a line.

Isaiah wasn’t afraid of insects anymore. Nor did he particularly feel like grinding his teeth, thinking ‘these bastards ruined my life,’ or wanting to take pleasure in tearing their bodies apart. To Isaiah, they were just work. Merely a task to be dealt with, like paperwork piled on a civil servant’s desk. However, this job did come with one option attached. An option named Bran.

Bran probably knew he was in Eloy. He must have known since Isaiah appeared at the church yesterday. Although he had sent Samuel along to the airport, the fact that Bran hadn’t subsequently tried a video call to confirm he was at the Williams Hotel, or how he had suddenly urged him during their phone call to stop shooting now, might mean he had finally realized. Realized that no matter how much he begged or pleaded, Isaiah would not give up.

So, did Bran finally give up? No. Isaiah didn’t want to phrase it like that.

— You still can’t lie.

This was, rather, trust. A solid belief that the other person would ultimately act according to their own will, no matter how much one begged or clung. Isaiah wanted to live up to that belief. He wanted to gladly repay Bran’s trust.

Like a seasoned and diligent civil servant, Isaiah loaded a round and pulled the trigger with clean, efficient movements. The insects keeled over, flipping onto their backs. Thwip, thwip. Seeing the black insects writhing, covered in blood within the round lens, reminded him of the insects he had once seen struggling, trapped in maple syrup he had dropped.

— What are you doing? Here?

He heard young Bran’s voice.

There were no light bulbs hanging on trees like back then, but instead, the moon hanging in the sky was illuminating them. Actually, he couldn’t see the moon either. It wasn’t time for the moon to be visible from this direction yet. But the smell of the moon was present. More accurately, it was the smell of bullets. It was said that the moon smells like bullets.

Me? I’m living up to the faith of my Yahweh.

Isaiah smiled and pulled the trigger. Thwack! Another insect collapsed, blood spurting from its neck. Looking closer, it was Ted. Unsurprisingly, Axley, who always stuck to Ted like a partner, was right beside him. Buy one, get one. Kill one, get one free. Isaiah’s muzzle immediately aimed at Axley’s head.

— Fwip

The recoil felt thrilling at his fingertip. Exactly 1.5 seconds later, Axley’s head exploded, scattering blood and brain matter in all directions. In the meantime, Isaiah pulled the trigger twice more.

He killed people faster than a civil servant could sign documents. A relentless, one-sided bombardment bordering on a massacre continued without pause. The bullets in the magazine depleted at the same rate that bodies piled up in the parking lot. Isaiah ejected the now-empty magazine and threw it to the floor.

“Magazine.”

“W-wait a moment!”

Mickey shouted urgently. The speed at which he was loading bullets into the magazines couldn’t keep up with the speed of the shooting.

“C-can’t we stop now?”

Mickey pleaded, handing over the magazine the instant the last bullet was inserted. Isaiah snatched the magazine with an indifferent hand.

“It’s over anyway.”

Even if he wanted to shoot more, there were no more bullets. The 300 Winchester Magnum rounds brought from Virginia came 40 to a box. This was the third magazine he was changing, making it exactly 40 rounds used with this one.

I should have brought more. Isaiah clicked his tongue. Then again, back then, he thought he wouldn’t even need these and had packed them just as spares. Thinking about it that way, perhaps he should consider himself lucky he brought even one box.

Isaiah loaded the magazine, returned the bolt to its place, and hugged the rifle tightly. Since it was the last one, he began shooting with even greater focus. It took slightly longer to identify targets now, as few of Chester’s men were left standing unharmed. Even so, it took less than a minute to exhaust all ten rounds. In five minutes, he had shattered perhaps thirty-odd heads. More than two minutes of that time had been wasted changing magazines and waiting for targets to reveal themselves.

This should be enough to count as the work of twenty men.

Isaiah detached the scope from the rifle. As he hastily disassembled only the barrel and receiver of the M24A2, stuffing them into the caddy bag, he turned to Mickey standing beside him and said, “Let’s go.”

Just then, he felt a sudden chill from behind. The back of his head tingled, and Isaiah quickly pulled the scope out of the bag, looking towards the church. An old pickup truck and several beat-up sedans were entering the rear parking lot all at once. Even before the vehicles stopped, men sitting in the bed of the pickup truck started firing at Bran’s men. Not shotguns, but machine guns.

“Wh-what…? Who are they?”

Mickey muttered in a dumbfounded voice at the sudden turn of events.

“What, what is it?”

Harold quickly ran over and snatched the scope from Mickey’s hand. As soon as he looked towards the church, he exclaimed, “Huh?”

“Those are Barone’s guys.”

“Barone?”

“Are you sure?” At Isaiah’s question, Harold muttered, still peering through the scope.

“Positive. Half of those guys are in my scrapbook.”

Mickey looked at Isaiah, his face stiff.

“If it’s Barone…”

It was the organization whose drugs Bran had stolen over a decade ago. Barone, who had needed to lay low at the time due to various issues, couldn’t dare to punish the culprit even knowing he was a rookie in the Kalisz organization. Now, they were in a situation where they could only grind their teeth while looking at the second-in-command of the Kalisz family, who had grown too powerful for them to even dream of challenging.

I see. So Chester had joined hands with Barone in preparation for today too. He talked about trusting me, but that wasn’t true at all.

A smirk touched Isaiah’s lips. Right, even if Chester was an idiot. If he had really just trusted their side and done nothing in this situation, his intelligence would be less than an ant’s.

It’s better this way. Thanks to this, I can kill Chester without any guilt. Not that I had any to begin with, of course.

“Hey, that… it’s chaos over there.”

Harold muttered, his eyes still glued to the scope.

“What should we do?”

Mickey said anxiously. Isaiah snatched the scope from Harold’s hand and said,

“Not here. Let’s go to the church.”

Manny would arrive soon anyway. Even if not, close combat was better in this situation. At this distance, he was the only one who could shoot effectively. They needed to get to the church to at least give Mickey and Harold pistols.

“What about that person?”

Mickey asked as they left the suite, seemingly unable to stop worrying about Alejandro collapsed in the living room.

“If you’re so worried, call the police or something.”

“Ah, that would work.”

While waiting for the elevator, Mickey sent a rescue request message to the police. Isaiah called Kestrel.

“My gun should be behind the sofa. Bring it down.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Right now. Hurry.”

As soon as he hung up, the elevator arrived. Upon reaching the B1 parking lot, Isaiah and Mickey ran towards a black Ford sedan flashing its taillights in the corner.

“What the fuck!”

Harold, who had initially run towards his own car, cursed belatedly and chased after the two.

“Asshole, tell me beforehand, tell me!”

Even while running towards the car, he seemed itching to pick a fight with Mickey.

“S-sorry.”

Mickey, amidst it all, apologized helplessly again.

Isaiah reached the car first. He opened the back door and was putting the caddy bag inside. Just at that moment, Screeeech, the harsh sound of tires grinding against the floor echoed from behind him. Simultaneously, Bang, bang! Deafening gunshots rang out in the basement. Mickey screamed. Isaiah abandoned the car door he was holding and dashed forward.

“Get down!”