"They Shot Claire Han’s Billionaire Husband in Front of 400 Guests—But the Moment She Took Down the Second Gunman, Everyone Realized the Quiet Wife Had Been Hiding Something Terrifying. "

Before the mercenaries could raise their rifles, a deafening explosion shattered the concrete floor near the rear loading docks.

A high-grade tactical flash charge—placed there twenty minutes earlier by Claire—ignited, sending a wall of blinding light and flying shrapnel tearing through the rear ranks.

Claire moved like a lightning bolt.

She drew both handguns simultaneously, firing four rapid shots into the two mercenaries on her right before they could clear their safety catches.

Pfft-pfft! Pfft-pfft!

The men collapsed into the dark water beneath the floorboards.

The third mercenary spun around, firing a heavy burst from his shotgun. The lead pellets tore through the wooden crates behind Claire, missing her head by inches.

Claire dove sideways, executing a shoulder roll across the wet concrete, and came up behind a heavy steel forklift. She reached out, unhooked a mechanical lever on the side of the machine, and sent a two-ton crate of industrial iron sliding down the ramp, crushing the third mercenary beneath its immense weight.

The fourth mercenary—the squad leader—scrambled backward, firing his pistol wildly through the smoke. "Where is she?! Where is she?!"

A shadow dropped from the iron rafters directly above him.

Claire landed on his back, driving a combat knife deep into the gap between his tactical helmet and neck guard. The man gasped, collapsing instantly.

Smoke rolled across the cavernous warehouse, thick with the smell of cordite, burning diesel, and blood.

Marcus stood alone in the center of the spotlight. His charcoal suit was stained with soot, his umbrella lying abandoned on the wet floor, his face pale with sudden, terrifying realization.

He pulled a small, silver-plated snub-nosed revolver from his jacket pocket, his hands trembling violently for the first time in his life.

"Viper!" he screamed into the dark smoke. "Show yourself! I made you! You hear me?! I MADE YOU!"

A quiet voice answered from directly behind him.

"You made a weapon, Marcus," Claire whispered. "And weapons always belong to the person who holds them."

Marcus spun around, raising his revolver, but Claire was already there.

She caught his wrist, twisting it upward with brutal, effortless force. A sharp CRACK echoed through the warehouse as Marcus’s wrist snapped like a dry twig. He screamed in agony, dropping the revolver onto the concrete.

Claire swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing onto his back in the center of the spotlight.

She stood over him, her pistol pointed directly at the space between his eyes. Her face was completely expressionless—the cold, terrifying visage of Viper, the ultimate instrument of death.

"Claire..." Marcus gasped, clutching his broken wrist, blood pooling beneath his head. "Please... we... we can rebuild... think of the power... think of what we could rule together..."

Claire’s thumb slowly pulled back the hammer of the pistol with a heavy, definitive CLICK.