Chapter 372:
The chaos threw everything into disarray. Lochlan’s and Ableson’s matters were shoved aside as everyone scrambled to defend against the attackers.
On the tower, Rylie watched as motorcycles sped toward the villa gate. She shifted her aim to the riders and squeezed the trigger again.
Though Ableson had struck a secret deal with these enemies, they barely made it to the gate before one of them dropped dead from a shot. The leader cursed loudly. “Damn it, it’s a setup! Retreat!”
By the time Deandre and his men reached the entrance, all they saw were the retreating silhouettes of the riders. “What’s going on?” someone asked.
Deandre’s eyes lifted toward the tower. “Check up there.”
They rushed up and found only a sniper’s lifeless body, still warm. Bullet casings lay scattered across the concrete floor, glowing faintly in the fading sunlight.
Deandre crouched, touching one of the casings. It was still warm.
“The sniper’s just left,” he muttered, frowning. “Search the entire estate. Don’t leave a single stone unturned!”
Meanwhile, Rylie had already reached the woods at the edge of the manor, slipping along the path she’d memorized earlier. Waiting for her was a young woman — the same one who had helped her back at Crolens Casino after the Black Tiger incident.
She handed Rylie a bag. “Private jet’s ready, Kretol flight.”
Rylie took it with a nod. “Keep an eye on Deandre. Keep him safe. As for the five million in the account, use it to buy supplies for the slums in Marinth.”
“Got it.”
Soon after, Rylie, disguised as a tourist in a baseball cap, rode a rented bicycle into town. She boarded the most ordinary bus heading for the airport — quiet and untraceable.
Back at the villa, a voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. “Mr. Owen! Mr. Quinn… He’s awake! Please hurry!”
In the medical room, Lochlan sat upright against the headboard. His face looked older than ever under the harsh light. When he spotted the body of his son Ableson, his cloudy eyes widened.
His voice came out rough and furious. “Who did this? I wake from surgery… and my poor son is dead in front of me?”
The medical advisor stepped forward, stiff with fear. “Mr. Quinn, we don’t know yet. A sniper shot your son from outside the window.”
“A sniper? How the hell could there be a sniper? This entire three-mile radius is under my control!” Lochlan slammed the bed, rattling the IV stand. “Where’s Deandre? Bring him to me!”
Lochlan had always favored Deandre — his foster heir. But they had agreed: no matter how far Ableson fell, his life would be spared. Ableson was his blood. Now, Lochlan’s heart churned with doubt. Could it be that Deandre had changed his mind?
The emotional blow hit hard. Still weak from surgery, he slumped back, breath short. His voice came faint and broken. “Call… call ‘Healing Hand’…”
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