𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝟐 | 𝟏𝟖+

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ Tᴡᴇɴᴛʏ Tʜʀᴇᴇ: Tʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ

Ramos and I sit in the idling car, our eyes fixed on the neon-lit entrance of the bar across the street. It's two in the morning, and the steady stream of patrons that had been flowing in earlier has slowed to a trickle, replaced by a parade of stumbling, intoxicated figures spilling out into the night.

"I think we should take him to Luis' property," I suggest.

Ramos shakes his head. "It's better if we bring him back to the compound. We have more control there, more resources at our disposal."

I hesitate for a moment, weighing the options in my mind. With a nod, I reach for my guns and load them with practiced efficiency.

Ramos glances at his watch, the face glowing an eerie green in the darkness of the car. "Let's head in."

We exit the car, our movements silent and fluid. "Are you sure?" I ask.

Ramos reaches out, his hand finding mine and squeezing it with a reassuring pressure. "I'm sure," he says. "Stay behind me."

Ramos takes the lead, his broad shoulders a solid wall of protection in front of me. I follow close behind, my pistol clutched in one hand, the other entwined with his. With stealthy steps, Ramos and I approach the bar's back entrance. Ramos carefully eases the door open, the hinges making a soft creak. We exchange a quick glance, before slipping inside.

A hallway stretches out before us, the walls pulsing with colored lights that filter in from the main room. We move forward, our footsteps muffled by the music and our senses on high alert for any sign of trouble.

We emerge into the bar and I start to feel a bit uneasy. The place is nearly deserted, a far cry from the bustling hive of activity that Mateo had described. One table is occupied by a group of men, their heads bent together in hushed conversation, their drinks emptied before them.

And then I see two burly figures, their eyes fixed on us, their muscles rippling beneath tight black t-shirts. They lock eyes with me, exchange a look, and then they're striding towards us with a purpose that can only mean one thing.

Trouble.

The bouncers charge towards us, their faces twisted with malice, Ramos explodes into motion. He meets the first attacker head-on, ducking under a wild haymaker and driving his fist into the man's gut with the force of a piledriver. The bouncer doubles over, his breath leaving him in a whoosh.

Ramos spins to face the second threat.

I keep my gun trained on the room at large. I scan the men, my eyes searching for any hint of a weapon. But they seem unarmed. It's odd, but I'm not about to question this small mercy. So I take a step back, allowing Ramos to handle the situation with his usual brutal efficiency. And if I'm being honest with myself, there's a part of me that relishes the sight of him in action.

The other bouncer comes at him with a flurry of jabs, his fists blurs of speed and power. But Ramos weaves between them like smoke. He catches the man's wrist, torquing it violently to the side until the bouncer's shoulder pops with a stomach-churning crunch.

The man crumples to the floor, cursing in agony. The first bouncer catches his breath and rises to his feet. He charges at Ramos like a bull, his head lowered, his arms pumping. Ramos sidesteps neatly, letting the man's momentum carry him past, then lashes out with a devastating kick to the back of his knee.

The bouncer goes down hard, his face slamming into the sticky floor with a thud. Ramos presses his knee into the man's back, his hands locking around his throat in a chokehold. Then, the man goes limp.

Ramos releases him and rises to his feet. "Clear the bar," he says, "I got this."

I nod, my grip tightening on my gun as I slip away. I approach the nearest table, where the group of men sit hunched over their empty drinks, their eyes darting nervously between me and Ramos in the distance.