The gunshot cracked across New Karenan's cathedral plaza—but it was Marco shooting past them, his .38 barking as the nearest professional killer spun and dropped behind the steam carriage.
Time didn't slow. It shattered.
Kasper's enhanced perception catalogued six different death scenarios in the span of a heartbeat. Carmen and Isabella exposed near the cathedral steps. Camila frozen between brass lamp posts. Aldair behind him, no exoskeleton, vulnerable. Marco with a smoking gun and terror in his eyes.
Four Thompson guns swinging toward his family.
Kasper grabbed the nearest projectile—a brass prayer book dropped in panic—and hurled it with enhanced strength. The impact cracked against a gunman's skull, sending him stumbling into a steam carriage. His Thompson sprayed wild, bullets chewing stone angels and brass fittings.
"¡RUN!" Kasper roared, but his family was already scattering.
Carmen dragged Isabella toward the cathedral doors, wheels catching on cobblestones as bullets whined overhead. Camila dove behind a mechanical vendor cart, brass gears exploding around her as automatic fire chewed through art deco metalwork.
Kasper tackled Marco behind a sedan just as return fire shattered every window in a cascade of glass and steam. The car's boiler ruptured, scalding vapor hissing across the plaza like dragon's breath.
"Stay down!" Kasper ripped the .38 from Marco's shaking hands. "Don't move, don't think, just breathe."
But Marco was staring at the body he'd made. Blood spreading across ancient cobblestones. The exit wound that had taken away the back of a man's skull.
"I can hear it," Marco whispered. "The sound when the bullet—"
"Focus!" Kasper snapped. Because enhanced hearing was picking up tactical chatter, professional coordination, the distinctive sound of Thompson bolts being pulled back for sustained fire.
These weren't street criminals. They were soldiers.
A burst of automatic fire forced Aldair to roll behind a brass fountain, his body moving with veteran instinct but lacking the mechanical assistance that had kept him mobile for years. He cried out—old wounds from Costa del Sol reopening under stress.
Kasper saw his stepfather's pain and something cold settled into his enhanced mind. Something that had kept him alive through two hundred thirty-seven confirmed kills. Something his family had never seen.
The Void.
He moved.
Not enhanced. Not tactical. Pure predator.
The first gunman was repositioning around the steam carriage when Kasper appeared beside him like death given form. No weapons—just enhanced strength applied to cervical vertebrae with surgical precision. The crack echoed across the plaza louder than gunfire.
The second killer spun, Thompson rising, but Kasper was already moving. Enhanced reflexes turned human reaction time into geological epochs. He caught the gun barrel, redirected it skyward, drove his elbow through the man's sternum with enough force to stop a heart.
"¡Dios mío," Carmen breathed from the cathedral steps.
Because her son wasn't fighting. He was hunting.
The third gunman had Isabella pinned behind her wheelchair, brass fittings sparking as bullets ricocheted off metal and stone. Twenty meters away. Too far for enhanced speed to matter.
Unless.
Kasper grabbed the dead killer's Thompson, checked the magazine with muscle memory that went deeper than thought, and opened fire. Not suppression. Not cover. Pure marksmanship that turned a man into meat in the space between heartbeats.
The fourth killer broke. Started running toward escape routes that Kasper's enhanced perception had mapped the moment this started.
He lasted twelve seconds.
When silence returned to the plaza, six professional soldiers lay dead among scattered prayer books and brass lamp posts. Kasper stood in the center of it all, Thompson still smoking in his hands, enhanced senses cataloguing threats that no longer existed.
His family stared at him with expressions he'd never seen before.
Not fear. Understanding.
Carmen helped Isabella to her feet, both women moving carefully around blood that was already seeping between cobblestones. Camila emerged from behind the vendor cart, brass gears and mechanical parts clinging to her dress like deadly confetti.
"Mijo," Carmen said quietly, "are you hurt?"
Kasper looked down. His shirt was torn, revealing enhanced ports and surgical scars that marked him as something between human and weapon. Blood on his hands—not his own. Glass cuts from the car windows. Steam burns from the ruptured boiler.
"No," he said. Then, more honestly: "I don't know."
Because the Void was still there, still calculating threats and elimination protocols. Still ready to turn him into the thing that had carved through Costa del Sol like divine wrath made flesh.
Marco sat against the steam carriage's wheel, staring at his hands. He'd tried to pick up pieces of brass debris. Dropped them when his fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Tried again.
"I killed someone," Marco whispered. "I can still hear—"
"You saved my father's life," Kasper interrupted, kneeling beside him. The enhanced veteran's voice carried something Marco had never heard before—respect. "Thank you."
But Marco was looking past him, at the bodies Kasper had made. At the surgical precision of violence that normal humans couldn't comprehend.
"You're not like us," Marco said. It wasn't accusation. It was recognition.
Kasper followed his gaze to where Carmen and Isabella were carefully not looking at the corpse with the twisted neck. Where Camila was processing that her brother had just killed six men in less time than it took to say a prayer.
"No," Kasper agreed. "I'm not."
Father Martinez appeared in the cathedral doorway, surveying carnage that would require more than holy water to cleanse. Behind him, police sirens wailed through New Karenan's narrow streets.
"My house," Kasper decided, reading tactical necessities. "Now. Before authorities arrive with inconvenient questions."
But first, he and Marco examined the dead.
Marco had noticed the tattoos during the fight—intricate skulls and crosses burned into skin that told stories of violence older than their war.
"Santos Negros," Marco said, turning over one of the bodies with hands that still trembled. "These aren't my father's men."
"Someone wanted us fighting each other," Kasper realized, enhanced perception connecting patterns that had been invisible in the chaos of survival. "Classic false flag. Make enemies destroy each other while the real threat stays hidden."
Marco stared at the blood on his expensive suit. At the way Kasper had moved through trained killers like they were children playing at war.
"We need to go," Kasper said gently. "Now."
MARCO
An hour later, Marco sat in the de la Fuente family's living room, processing the fact that he'd killed a man and watched Kasper become something that shouldn't exist outside of nightmares.
Carmen moved through the house with maternal efficiency, checking wounds and brewing café cubano while pointedly not mentioning the blood under Kasper's fingernails. Isabella worked on her mechanical projects with determined normalcy, brass gears clicking in rhythms that didn't quite cover the memory of gunfire.
Camila stayed close to Marco, her anger at Kasper temporarily overridden by gratitude and terror in equal measure.
"What the hell just happened?" Isabella demanded, brass gears locking as she faced her brother. "Professional killers in church? You moving like—like that?"
Kasper sat carefully in his father's chair, enhanced reflexes still cataloguing threats that didn't exist. "Like what?"
"Like death," Camila whispered. "Like you were born for it."
The words hung in Caribbean air thick with coffee and unspoken truths.
Marco tried to pick up his cup. Set it down when porcelain chattered against saucer. Tried again. His hands wouldn't stop moving.
"The sound when the bullet hit," he said to no one in particular. "It's not like movies. It's wet. And final."
Kasper knelt beside him on the living room floor. "You saved my father's life. That sound? It's the price good men pay to protect people who can't protect themselves."
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Marco looked up, meeting enhanced eyes that had seen too much violence to quantify. "After Costa del Sol? After today?"
"Every day."
Heavy knocking echoed from the front door—too measured, too official. Kasper's enhanced perception snapped to tactical assessment before he could stop it.
"Kitchen," he told Marco. "Stay quiet."
Something in the enhanced veteran's voice made Marco move without question. From the alcove, he watched Kasper answer the door with careful neutrality.
A tall man in an expensive suit removed his hat in Caribbean heat. "Investigator Hayes, Bounty Hunter Association Internal Affairs. Mind if I come in?"
Hayes settled into the living room like he owned it, accepting Carmen's coffee while his eyes catalogued exits and defensive positions. Professional assessment. Military bearing disguised as bureaucratic courtesy.
"Hell of a thing at the cathedral," Hayes said, sipping coffee with genuine appreciation. "Professional hit team, military weapons, civilian target zone." He paused, watching Kasper's face for reactions. "Someone really wanted your family dead."
"So it seems," Kasper replied with the careful tone Marco recognized from dealing with authority figures who might be enemies.
"Course, we both know who has that kind of reach in New Karenan." Hayes smiled without warmth. "Moretti family's been expanding operations lately. Word is they're looking to diversify into new markets."
Marco tensed in the kitchen. His father dealt in contraband—cigarettes, alcohol, luxury goods. Clean business by New Karenan standards. No unnecessary violence.
"What kind of markets?" Carmen asked, maternal protective instincts overriding diplomatic caution.
"The kind that brings professional killers to Sunday mass, Mrs. de la Fuente." Hayes leaned forward, predator recognizing prey. "Young Marco Moretti's been sniffing around your daughter, hasn't he? Maybe daddy decided enhanced veterans were bad for the family business."
The lie hit Marco like physical violence. They thought he'd ordered the hit. That his family had tried to murder the de la Fuentes in God's house.
"Lucky you were there," Hayes continued, genuine admiration creeping into his voice. "The Void Killer himself. Textbook threat elimination. Six professionals down in what, two minutes?"
"Closer to four," Kasper replied carefully.
"Modest." Hayes finished his coffee and stood. "We'll handle the Moretti problem. Clean house, as it were. Can't have organized crime targeting Association assets."
He paused at the door, hat in hand. "Course, with threats escalating globally, we might need our best weapons back in the field soon. Costa del Sol proved what enhanced soldiers can accomplish when properly motivated."
The words carried weight that made the house seem smaller.
"Europe's heating up," Hayes continued conversationally. "Lost three teams in two months. ATA cells using tactics our regular agents can't counter. We need someone who understands necessary violence."
Kasper's expression gave nothing away. "I appreciate the Association's concern."
After Hayes left, Kasper returned to the living room with the expression of someone who'd just watched pieces fall into place on a board he hadn't known he was playing on.
"Marco," he called softly. "You can come out."
Marco emerged, mind racing through implications. "They think my family ordered the hit."
"They want us to think that." Kasper moved to the window, enhanced vision scanning streets for surveillance that might or might not exist. "Santos Negros tattoos aren't subtle. But Hayes is pushing the Moretti angle anyway."
"Why would—"
More knocking interrupted—different this time. Respectful, carrying authority that made the house itself seem to listen.
Kasper opened the door to reveal two men who shouldn't have been standing together on any normal day in New Karenan.
Vincenzo Moretti, crime boss and patriarch, his expensive suit wrinkled from rapid travel and stress.
Beside him, a man Marco had never seen but whose presence filled the doorway like controlled violence wrapped in art deco elegance. Late thirties, dark hair, eyes that catalogued threats with the same enhanced precision as Kasper's.
"Mr. de la Fuente," Vincenzo said formally. "I believe we need to talk."
The stranger stepped forward, removing his hat with old-world courtesy. "Kasper. Been too long."
Kasper's enhanced perception seemed to pause, as if even augmented reflexes needed time to process this arrival.
"Zariff," Kasper said quietly. "What brings you to New Karenan?"
KASPER
The living room felt smaller with Vincenzo Moretti and Zariff Queen occupying family space that had been sanctuary minutes before.
Zariff accepted coffee with the same careful courtesy he'd shown during Academy training sessions. Older now, more dangerous, but still carrying that precise lethality that made him legend among bounty hunters who knew better than to ask questions about his methods.
His eyes found Kasper's enhanced ports, the surgical scars visible through torn fabric, the blood still caked under fingernails that had just carved through six professional killers.
"Interesting Sunday," Zariff said mildly.
"Your son showed real courage today," Kasper told Vincenzo, watching Marco straighten slightly at paternal attention. "Saved my father's life."
Vincenzo nodded, pride mixing with concern as he assessed Marco's thousand-yard stare. "Santos Negros doesn't move against established families without serious backing. Someone's playing a dangerous game with our city."
Zariff reached into his jacket with deliberate slowness, producing a brass-fitted tablet. The screen showed surveillance photographs—Hayes meeting with men in expensive suits outside a warehouse marked with Santos Negros graffiti.
"Your Association investigator's been busy," Zariff said, setting the tablet where everyone could see. "Three meetings this week. Always the same location."
Isabella's mechanical projects had gone silent, brass gears still as she processed implications. "You've been watching the Bounty Hunter Association?"
"We watch everyone who matters." Zariff's smile carried old secrets and older violence. "Especially when they start hunting enhanced veterans like prize game."
The words hit like ice water in Caribbean heat. Kasper felt tactical assessment kick in automatically—escape routes, defensive positions, threat evaluation for his family who'd just watched him become something inhuman.
"They want me back," Kasper realized. "Costa del Sol was just the beginning."
Zariff nodded grimly, producing another tablet. The screen showed shipping manifests, financial records, communication logs that painted pictures of coordinated violence across multiple continents.
"Threats are escalating globally," Zariff confirmed. "ATA cells in Europe using enhanced technology we don't understand. Three Association teams eliminated in six weeks. They need their best weapon motivated properly."
Marco stepped forward, still shaky but finding his voice. "Motivated how?"
"Take away everything he loves," Vincenzo said quietly, crime boss understanding the mathematics of leverage. "Make him angry enough to stop holding back. Turn him into the thing that carved through Costa del Sol like divine wrath."
Carmen's coffee cup rattled against its saucer. In the sudden quiet, they could hear Isabella's wheelchair gears clicking with nervous energy.
Camila looked at her brother—really looked at him for the first time since the cathedral. At the enhanced ports that marked him as government property. At the surgical scars that told stories of transformation beyond human limits. At hands that had just killed six men with the casual efficiency of someone cutting vegetables.
"You're not coming back from this, are you?" she asked. "Whatever they made you into in Costa del Sol. There's no going back to normal."
Kasper met his sister's eyes—the woman who'd grown up with him, who'd seen him laugh and cry and be human before enhancement turned him into something else.
"No," he said honestly. "There isn't."
Zariff looked around the room—at crime boss and heir caught in games larger than local power, at family processing the reality of loving someone who'd been weaponized by his own government, at enhanced veteran whose augmented perception was connecting dots faster than normal humans could follow.
"The question is," Zariff said quietly, "what are we going to do about it?"
Carmen set down her cup with the deliberate control of a woman who'd survived decades of loss and love. "¿Qué opciones tenemos?"
"We fight smart," Vincenzo replied, crime boss recognizing war when it came to his city. "Someone wants chaos in New Karenan? We show them what real power looks like when it unites instead of divides."
Marco looked at his father, then at Kasper, then at the family who'd become targets because of games played by people who treated lives like chess pieces and enhanced veterans like weapons to be deployed at will.
"What do you need from us?"
Zariff's smile was sharp as enhanced steel, carrying promises of violence that would make the cathedral plaza look like a church social.
"Information," he said. "The kind you can only get from the inside."