Ethan Cole - The Unlimited System

The room froze.

Before Donald or his guards could react to the news of an attack, Mark was already in action. He quickly grabbed Donald by the collar and turned him around, holding him still.

From Mark's hand, a powerful magnum appeared. He was ready to shoot as the barrel was pressed firmly against the side of Donald's head. Donald was trembling in fear.

"No! No! No!" Donald pleaded. "Are you guys stupid?!"

The guards froze, stunned. None of them could figure out how Mark had smuggled a gun past their security.

They had checked him, maybe not thoroughly, but enough to be confident. Or so they thought.

A weapon shouldn't have been possible. Not here. Not under their watch.

But there was no time to process the shock.

Their boss's life was on the line, and in that moment, instinct kicked in.

All that mattered now was protecting Donald, no matter what it took.

"Drop your weapons," Mark ordered.

The guards exchanged uncertain glances, gripping their rifles tighter. But they didn't move.

Donald, his bravado slipping, stammered, "W-what are you doing? You're in my territory, Spencer!"

Mark didn't flinch. His grip remained firm, and his icy gaze didn't waver. "Your territory? Let's see how much that means when you're six feet under."

The guards, realizing their only leverage was Ethan, began shifting toward him.

Mark moved first.

With one swift motion, he reached into his coat and flicked something toward Ethan.

"Ethan! Catch!"

It spun through the air. A black handgun—small, sleek, modified.

Ethan caught it one-handed without thinking. The moment his fingers wrapped around the grip, something stirred inside him. A strange certainty.

He didn't hesitate.

Not even a second.

The guards panicked.

"He's got a gun!" one of them shouted.

"How the hell did that get in?!"

"Move! Take him down!"

Ethan's instincts flared.

He dove toward one of the large wooden planters that lined the walls—an overdecorated fixture that now made for solid cover. Bullets cracked through the air just a breath behind him.

He rolled into position, gun in both hands, breathing sharply.

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'That was close.'

He peeked from the side. Twelve men. Scattered, flanking, pushing forward.

Then he squeezed the trigger.

The bullet tore through one guard's chest before the man even knew what hit him. He dropped, face-first, blood pooling beneath him.

Ethan froze.

Everything went silent in his head.

He saw the man fall—limp, lifeless. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He had just killed someone.

'I really... killed someone?'

His hands trembled. The gun suddenly felt heavier. His chest tightened.

'I didn't even aim that hard. I just… shot. And he died.'

He clenched his jaw, fighting the rush of nausea.

No one trained you for this. No simulator. No system panel.

Only cold, permanent reality.

"Ethan!" Mark's voice roared from across the room. "Get over it! Move now or you're next!"

That snapped him back. He ducked just as a bullet splintered the edge of his cover.

The guards were shouting again, panicked.

"Take him out!"

"Don't let him move! Flank him!"

"That kid is good!"

Ethan gritted his teeth. 'Move now. Regret later.'

He rolled out and sprinted toward a nearby stack of crates, Mark's earlier shout still guiding him.

More bullets flew, some whizzing past, others smashing into the ground.

He reached the crates, back slamming against the side, gasping. He was still feeling like vomiting after he had killed someone just now.

Mark had taken cover near the steel beams with Donald still in his grasp. No one dared shoot with their boss being used as a human shield.

Ethan peeked around the edge and spotted two guards flanking left, trying to pin him down.

He fired twice. They were clean, and controlled shots.

One went down immediately. The other took a hit to the shoulder and collapsed with a scream.

Ethan didn't pause this time.

He adjusted his aim and counted his shots mentally. The gun Mark gave him had 33 bullets. He had already used four.

'Twenty-nine left. I can't waste them.'

From across the room, Mark barked another command. "Right side! Behind the forklift!"

Ethan turned and fired again—clipping another enemy trying to sneak up.

They weren't trained soldiers. They panicked easily. They didn't expect this kind of retaliation.

'Neither did I.'

But now?

Now he had no choice.

This was survival.

***

Back at the Moore house, tension hung thick in the air.

Jordan stood in the middle of the living room, his posture rigid, eyes scanning each face.

The usual calm he wore like a second skin was gone. Replaced by something firmer and sharper.

Jessica sat beside her mother, Julie, both of them holding onto cups of untouched tea. Across from them, Harold leaned heavily on his cane, silent but alert.

The twins, Josh and Joshua, sat close together on the couch, unusually quiet.

Jordan didn't mince words.

"I want all of you to take what's important—documents, photos, anything you can't afford to lose—and get into Ethan's car."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

The weight behind his words said enough.

Jessica blinked but didn't ask.

Julie stood first, nodding briskly. "Understood."

Jordan glanced at the twins. They didn't argue. They didn't joke. They just nodded and got up, heading toward their room without saying a word.

Jessica watched them for a moment, then turned to Jordan. "Do we really have to go?"

He met her eyes. "Yes."

A beat passed.

Jessica didn't ask what kind of danger they were in. She didn't ask where Ethan was or what happened. She just looked at Jordan's face, at the tension in his jaw, at how tightly he was gripping his phone, and she understood.

Harold shifted, finally speaking in his low, gravelly tone. "We leaving for good?"

Jordan exhaled slowly. "I don't know. Maybe just for now. But it's better we're not here when things go south."

Julie came back with a duffel bag already packed. "You're not coming with us?"

Jordan nodded his head. "I'm coming. But, I need to stay close to the situation until Mark gives the all-clear."

Josh and Joshua returned, each carrying a backpack and helping Harold to his feet. They didn't say anything. For once, they just… listened.

Jordan looked at them, really looked at them, and felt a flicker of something rare.

They weren't like most kids their age. Not anymore. Since they had no father to rely on, they needed to step up their game.

Jessica moved past him and opened the front door. "Let's go."

Julie paused beside Jordan before stepping out. "Are we leaving now?"

"Yes. Right now."

The door closed behind them, and soon the house fell into silence again. Jordan stopped and stayed still for a moment, listening to the echoes of footsteps fade away.

He wanted the others to get into the car first.

Then he pulled out his phone and checked the last message from Ethan.

Still no update.

He muttered to himself, just loud enough to break the silence, "Come on, boss. You better walk out of that place in one piece."