Maia Mesa grew up with her family in Cuba, but that suddenly changed, and she found herself in a position no one wishes to be, without family.
Marcus Burnett, a repentant and good soul takes her as his own daughter, as well his wife Theresa, a new...
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I sprint toward the entrance, my boots slamming against the cracked pavement with each hurried step. As I cross the threshold, the stench hits me like a punch to the gut—a suffocating mix of dust, blood, and gunpowder that clings to the air and fills my lungs. Inside, it feels like I've stepped into a living nightmare. The interior is far more expansive than it appeared from the outside, the open space stretching out endlessly like a war-torn battlefield.
What was once a grand hotel, filled with life and luxury, is now a desolate, hellish scene. The lobby that must have once been elegant and inviting is now a grim graveyard, the remnants of the past barely recognizable beneath the layers of destruction. Bodies are scattered across the floor, some slumped against walls, others lying face down in twisted, unnatural positions. Dark red pools of blood seeped from beneath them, slowly spreading across the cracked marble tiles, staining everything they touched.
The walls, once adorned with beautiful artwork and ornate moldings, are now scarred and battered, riddled with bullet holes and deep gouges from the relentless violence that tore through this place. Shattered glass from chandeliers and windows crunches beneath my boots, mingling with the debris that litters the ground—discarded guns, spent shells, broken furniture, and pieces of the ceiling that have collapsed under the strain of the onslaught.
The noise inside is overwhelming, a constant, ear-splitting roar that makes it hard to think. The distant echo of gunfire bounces off the walls, never letting up, while the steady hum of the helicopter hovering above only adds to the tension. Every sound is a reminder of the danger surrounding me, the urgency pressing down on my chest, pushing me forward.
I toss aside my small handgun, its weight suddenly insignificant, and snatch up a larger weapon from the cold grip of a fallen enemy. The feel of the heavy metal in my hands gives me a small sense of security, though I know it's fleeting. I'm inside the building now, which means anyone who isn't on my team is a threat.
I crouch low, making myself as small as possible behind a table, trying to assess the situation without exposing myself.
In the dim light, I spot Rita helping Kelly across the room. Kelly's face is contorted in pain, and blood seeps through a makeshift bandage on her side. They're both focused on getting to safety, oblivious to the two figures creeping up behind them, guns raised, ready to take them out. My heart skips a beat—if I don't act now, they're dead.
I steady my breath, line up the shot, and fire. The two men drop instantly, their weapons clattering to the floor.
Rita spins around, her gun trained on where the threat just stood. Her eyes sweep the room, wild and searching, until they lock onto mine. I give her a quick wink, a silent acknowledgment that we're still in this together. Her expression shifts from shock to relief, a small nod telling me she understands.
