Chapter 5 - The Masterclass
The remaining three men didn't hesitate. Fueled by shock and rage, they charged at her simultaneously.
The man on the left swung a heavy telescopic baton, aiming straight for her head. Naomi ducked beneath the whistling steel, feeling the wind of the strike brush past her hair. She stepped inside his range, driving a sharp elbow directly into his ribs. A dull crack echoed through the rain, and the man gasped, dropping the baton as his breath left him entirely.
Naomi caught the falling baton in mid-air. Without breaking momentum, she spun on her heel and cracked the steel rod across the knee of the second attacker coming from her right.
The man screamed, his leg buckling instantly under the impact as he crashed face-first into the wet pavement.
The third attacker was larger—a towering six-foot-four man built like a brick wall. He tried to tackle her, wrapping his thick arms around her waist to drive her into the mud.
Naomi used his momentum against him. As he slammed into her, she grabbed his collar, dropped her hips, and executed a perfect shoulder throw. The massive man flew over her head, slamming violently onto the hood of the black SUV with a sickening crunch of glass and crushed metal.
In less than twelve seconds, all four men were lying in the rain, groaning in agony, completely broken.
Naomi stood in the center of the road, her chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic breaths. Her hands were bloodied, her coat soaked, but her stance remained entirely unbroken.
The leader, clutching his broken nose and shattered wrist, looked up at her from the mud, tears of pain mixing with the rain on his face. "What... what kind of maid are you?" he wheezed.
Naomi walked over to him, stepping over his fallen men. She knelt beside him, reaching into his inner coat pocket. She pulled out his leather wallet, opening it to find his driver’s license and his contractor badge.
"I was trained by Margaret Hale," Naomi whispered softly into his ear.
The leader’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. The name Margaret Hale was legendary in the private security underworld—a ghost who trained the most lethal operators on the planet.
"Tell Richard Sterling," Naomi said, dropping his wallet onto his chest, "that if he or his daughter ever comes near me, or Ethan Whitmore, or anyone working at Whitmore House again, I will not drop my weapons next time. Do you understand me?"
The leader nodded frantically, choking on his own blood. "Yes... yes! I'll tell him!"
Naomi picked up her duffel bag from the grass, slinging it over her shoulder. She turned toward the main road, leaving the four broken men groaning in the rain behind her.
Suddenly, the bright headlights of a second car illuminated the dark street.
It wasn't another SUV full of mercenaries. It was a sleek, silver sedan. The car pulled up beside her, the driver’s window rolling down to reveal Ethan Whitmore.
He looked at the four men bleeding on the asphalt, then looked at Naomi standing calmly with her duffel bag. His mouth hung open in utter disbelief.
"Naomi..." Ethan choked out, his voice shaking. "I... I followed you from the house... I was worried about you..."
Naomi looked at him, a faint, gentle smile touching her lips despite the bloody knuckles on her right hand.
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"Get in," Ethan pleaded, pushing open the passenger door. "Please. You can't stay out here in the rain."
Naomi hesitated for a second, then stepped into the warm leather interior of the car, closing the door behind her.
