?Chapter 1633:
But just as Brendan’s finger hit the button…
The anticipated st never erupted. A heavy, disquieting hush settled over the gathered crowd instead, as puzzled faces turned to one another, tension unwinding like a coiled spring as their panicked pulses ebbed into an uneasy calm.
The bomb linked to the remote had to be a decoy since there was no other exnation for the absence of devastation.
Yet Brendan’s reaction told a different story; his widening eyes and rigid posture extinguished any fleeting hope that the threat had been a ruse.
Brendan stood transfixed, his eyes locked on the remote clutched in his trembling hand. A disbelieving cry escaped him. “How is this happening? Why won’t it work?”
Growing increasingly anxious, he pressed the button again. Maybe the first press had sparked a malfunction, and a desperate second try could still bridge the gap. But the bombs stayed silent, stubbornly inert.
A wave of relief rippled through the crowd. The true culprit, it became clear, was not a short circuit but a critical failure within the remote itself.
Brendan’sposure fractured, the bombs’ inexplicable silence gnawing at his sanity—its failure, a catastrophic oversight he’d arrogantly dismissed as impossible.
In a frenzied panic, he jabbed at the button repeatedly, each desperate stab met with nothing but hollow silence. The expected detonation refused to materialize.
He shook his head frantically, eyes wide with terror. The remote’s dead weight in his palm confirmed its failure. Vincent’s wrath would im his life—a price for ipetence he couldn’t outrun.
Brendan was painfully aware of Vincent’s capacity for ruthlessness. Crossed Vincent, and brutal repercussions followed. Mercy was a currency he never traded in.
This was precisely why Brendan had rigged the vicinity with explosives when orchestrating the meeting with Vincent. A final, reckless gamble born of desperation.
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Now, even that n had failed, a devastating blow to Brendan.
As Brendan fumbled desperately with the unresponsive remote, Vincent pressed the barrel of his gun against Brendan’s forehead and snarled, “Save that worthless gadget for your coffin.”
Vincent’s finger tightened on the trigger. The gun’s deafening report split the air, final and unyielding.
A bullet tore through Brendan’s skull, leaving a jagged, crimson void where his forehead had been. His body folded like a marite with severed strings, the remote ttering to the floor beside his still form.
The moment their leader fell lifeless, Brendan’s men crumpled, their defiance dissolving into paralyzing dread. In a frantic scramble to preserve their lives, they thrust their hands upward, surrendering any semnce of resistance.
Vincent’s gaze, sharp and cial, lingered on Brendan’s motionless form, a silent verdict on the futility of his defiance.
The Adams family had always drawn his ire, and Brendan, a relentless instigator who’d crossed every line—even endangering Katelyn’s closest confidants—earned his deepest contempt.
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