From Bullets To Billions

Chapter 394: A Direct Attack (Part 1)

It had always been standard for reception to be watched by two guards. Even though the Fortis Group, now the Billion Bloodline group, had once been a private security company, the desk never needed a dozen sentries; two was enough for the ordinary things that happened at a front desk. Most problems that came through could be handled by protocol and a steady pair of hands.

They had many talented staff members whose real purpose was to move as a unit when called: mobilize, secure, and respond. But those teams were for larger incidents, coordinated efforts you only saw when the company decided to show force. On a day like any other, the two at reception were expected to be a deterrent, a symbol of calm. Guards for unruly customers, for rude clients, for rowdy deliveries—those were the kinds of situations that required two people at most. Nobody expected them to be the first line against a planned abduction. Nobody expected them to be the ones who would be taken out.

That was the problem now. With the two guards down there was, for the moment, no one standing between Sheri and the men who had come for her.

”Haha, well that was easy,” Jett shouted, voice high with the kind of simple triumph bullies live off. ”Looks like our target is right in front of us, boys—let’s get her!”

The shout was a signal and a release. The men moved like a pack uncoupled, running forward with noises that weren’t words so much as appetite. They looked less like organized operatives and more like predators tasting success.

Sheri didn’t freeze this time. Unlike the last time, when fear had rooted every bone in her body and turned her pale and silent, she moved. She spun toward the elevator and ran. There was no hope in that decision, only motion. She didn’t believe a miracle would save her twice. She had learned, painfully, that miracles weren’t reliable. This was different now, but different in a way that made her feet move faster.

Target, she thought, voice sharp in the back of her head. The word pulsed like a red dot. The elevator seemed miles away, stretched out ahead by the rush of panic. Everything slowed and stretched at once, her heart, the distance, the sound of shoes on tile. It felt like the world had turned the action into slow film.

Then a chain whipped the back of her leg. One of the attackers had swung a bike chain with a motion that was practiced and raw. It hit with a cruel, precise crack and Sheri folded. Pain burst up through her leg in white ribbons. The impact sent her down onto the hard floor, breath ripped from her like wind knocked out.

She tried to turn, to scramble, to bring her feet up and kick, but one of the men was already on her, fingers clamping around her ankle like iron. ”Looks like I’ll be the one getting the biggest payday,” he said, crude and sure. He dragged at her, hand gripping, as if cash could be counted by force of will.

Sheri lashed out with her heels, kicking and thrashing, but the man’s fingers dug in deeper. He did not let go. He pulled her along the floor, panting with the effort, his voice rough with greed.

Then a baton came down on his arm. It struck with a ringing thud that sounded impossibly loud in the enclosed space. The man’s host of motions faltered; his fingers, which had been cruelly intent on her leg, eased. He grunted, more from surprise than pain, and for a second Sheri could breathe, a shallow ribbon of air in an otherwise full silence.

She looked up, blinking away stars, and saw that it wasn’t just a single rescuer. A group of people had stepped out of the elevator together, moving quickly and with authority. Their presence filled the doorway like a closing hand.

”What is going on here?” one of the Fortis guards shouted, voice sharp and immediate. He moved to lift Sheri up, pulling her away from the grasping hands as if the simple act of getting her upright could undo the wrong that had already been done. The practical motion of getting someone to safety cut through the chaos like a sharp edge.

”You idiots—mobsters really decided to attack a private security group out of all things!” another voice snapped. The words were half incredulous, half proud. ”Has the reputation of the Fortis Group really fallen so low that people think they can do this now?”

”Hey, we’re no longer the Fortis Group,” someone else answered, adrenaline sharpening the tone. ”Remember, we’re the Billion Bloodline Group now— and we have to prove to them why we’re worth our payroll!” The reply came with a charged enthusiasm that felt like a dare; the staff were hyped and angry, ready to fight and show that they were more than a renamed company with a new logo.

There was only one elevator in that corner of reception that led to the other floors, decorative and deliberately more show than function. It was built to look impressive, a statement of design rather than efficiency. Fifteen people could fit inside comfortably before the weight limit became a real concern; that detail didn’t matter in the moment, but it meant the elevator would be making trips up and down quickly, ready to ferry more people to the lobby if needed.

Sheri, though, found herself in a precarious place. She could not take that elevator in the moment, not with the attackers spread like a ring around the area, closing exits, leaning into the edges of doors and stairwells alike. Unless she sprinted to another part of the building or pushed through the emergency exit, the elevator was no safe escape. It would bring help, yes, but it would also bring a crowd into a space the attackers were trying to control. The attackers, for their part, had no intention of letting anyone leave easily. They fanned out, arranging themselves so a complete circle closed around the reception, cutting off lines of escape with a simple, cruel geometry.

”Private security, right? So you’re used to dealing with some crazy fans from time to time,” Jett taunted, voice smooth and theatrical. ”Well, let’s just say I’m a crazy fan of hers. Let’s see how well you can protect her.”

The man closest to Jett raised a baton, charging it like a prize, preparing to bring it down. Jett reacted as instinct and practice braided together. He swung his leg up in a motion that was both elegant and brutal and snapped the baton like a twig. The sound of breaking plastic and metal rang through the courtyard, a sharp punctuation.

Then Jett reached forward and grabbed the guard’s shoulder. It wasn’t just a grip on fabric; the suit the guard wore had flexible hard armor built into the shoulder, designed to absorb hits, to protect. Jett’s hand found purchase, though, and he gripped down harder than the armor was meant for. The motion wasn’t just a yank; it was a compression that moved beyond textile into the body beneath. He crunched through, fingertips finding bone, and the guard screamed, the sound high and raw.

The others rushed him as if glued to the spot, movement thick and urgent, but Jett, strong and deliberate, lifted and threw the man at his colleagues like a human battering ram. The impact scattered people and sent a ripple across the floor.

”Under my grip strength,” Jett announced, voice low and cruel, eyes sweeping the clustered group, ”not a single one of you will be able to get away. And that woman is within my grasp.”