My Star My Spy Chapter 14
The Studios — Northern Wing, Los Angeles, California
Team Bravo, led by Private Celina, advanced through the film sets of the Northern Wing. Destroyed equipment littered the area, while burned documents and scattered files covered the floor, remnants of the chaos that had swept through the Studios.
Celina wore a tactical mask beneath her FAST helmet, her eyes carefully scanning the damaged sets before she raised a hand and signaled to her troops.
"Scatter, and make sure you don't burn yourselves," she ordered clearly.
"Yes, ma'am!" the operators answered in unison.
The team immediately split up and began searching the area. Some operators moved through the wreckage while others grabbed fire extinguishers, working to contain the flames that continued spreading across portions of the film sets.
Celina crouched down and searched beneath tables, across the floor, and around the damaged equipment. She had slung her XM7 with attachments across her back, leaving both hands free as she pulled the safety pin from a nearby fire extinguisher.
An operator wearing a dark tactical suit, FAST helmet, and protective vest approached her.
"Ma'am, our unit hasn't found any detonator," he reported. "But we found what appears to be a prop detonator."
Celina looked toward him.
"Are you sure it's fake?"
"Positive, ma'am. It's clearly a prop," the Delta Company operator replied.
Celina gave a brief nod before turning toward the burning film set.
"Alright. Let's put the fire out."
"Yes, ma'am."
The operator immediately moved to assist the others, joining them as they worked to extinguish the remaining flames.
Celina reached for her radio.
"Major Gab, this is Team Bravo. There's no detonator in the Northern Wing film sets of the Studios."
Gab's voice came through the radio a moment later.
"Roger that. If you can, order your men to conduct rescue operations and eliminate any remaining mercenaries inside."
"Yes, sir," Celina replied calmly.
She lowered the radio and looked across the burning film sets as her team continued searching through the wreckage.
The detonator was still nowhere to be found.
The Eastern Wing remained eerily quiet, with the bodies of fallen security guards still scattered throughout the damaged corridors. Team Charlie advanced through a long white corridor leading toward an office-like section, where shattered windows and broken glass covered the floor.
Sergeant Dakota led the team, dressed in dark tactical gear and carrying his M4A1 equipped with optics and additional attachments. His Delta Company operators followed closely behind, their weapons ready as they carefully scanned their surroundings.
"Team, scatter," Dakota ordered. "Be careful. There's a bomb somewhere in this area."
"Yes, sir!" the Delta operators responded in unison.
The team immediately dispersed throughout the wing. Operators searched the corridors, examined the bodies of fallen mercenaries, checked drawers, and inspected the floors and surrounding rooms, searching for anything that could lead them to the missing detonator.
Nothing.
Dakota exchanged a brief glance with three nearby operators before signaling them toward the press conference room. They moved silently through the entrance, weapons raised as they carefully cleared the spacious room.
Dakota crouched beside two fallen mercenaries and searched their equipment.
Nothing.
He moved back to his feet and looked across the room.
"All clear here!" he called.
The other operators continued their search throughout the room and surrounding corridors. One by one, they reported the same result.
"All clear here!"
Dakota raised his radio.
"Major, all clear here in the Eastern Wing press conference room."
Gab's voice came through almost immediately.
"Alright. Move out and get to safety. There's a bomb located there."
"Sir, yes, sir," Dakota replied calmly.
He lowered his radio and turned toward his team.
"Team, let's move out!"
His voice rose sharply across the room.
The operators immediately regrouped and moved out of the Eastern Wing, leaving the area behind as they headed toward a safer position.
Meanwhile team Delta then moved toward the parking lot, with several Delta Company operators following Private Jayson as he led them toward the exit. They moved cautiously across the polished floor, weapons aimed straight ahead while some operators watched each other's six, making sure no threat could catch them off guard.
Jayson suddenly raised his hand.
"Halt."
Everyone immediately stopped and crouched, with several operators holding their positions while waiting for Jayson's next signal. Jayson carefully scanned the parking lot before signaling two men to move ahead.
The two operators advanced with their weapons raised, their eyes sweeping across the open area. They briefly looked at each other before storming forward and checking the surrounding sections of the parking lot.
Nothing.
They turned back and signaled to Jayson.
Negative.
Private Jayson gave his team another signal.
"Move in."
The Delta operators advanced into the parking lot before spreading out across the area.
"Team, scatter. Look for that detonator now," Jayson ordered.
"Copy that."
The operators immediately scattered, searching around the vehicles, corners, entrances, and every accessible section of the parking lot. Jayson moved in another direction, carefully examining the polished floor as he searched for anything that might reveal where the detonator had gone.
Then he noticed something.
A set of wheel tracks crossed the floor.
Jayson stopped and looked down at them. He slung his MK18 Mod 1 across his back before crouching down, placing his hands against the pavement as he carefully examined the fresh marks.
"These tracks... they're new," he said.
His eyes followed the direction of the tracks across the parking lot. He studied where they were leading before slowly looking toward the exit.
"Some mercs could've escaped," he muttered.
He paused, his voice dropping into a quiet whisper.
"Some of them, maybe."
A few moments later, several Delta operators ran toward him.
"Sir, we couldn't find anything here," one of the operators reported.
Jayson stood and looked around the parking lot.
"Did you search every perimeter of the place?"
"Yes, sir," the operator answered.
Another operator confirmed the same.
"Yes, sir. We searched every perimeter."
Jayson clenched his jaw.
"Damn it..." he muttered.
He immediately reached for his radio and pressed the transmit button.
"Major, there's no bomb found here," Jayson reported calmly.
Static briefly crackled through the radio before Gab's voice came through.
"Damn it..." Gab muttered, frustration evident in his voice. He quickly regained his composure before continuing, "Anyways, keep looking. At this point, we're losing time. I'll go find it with Team Alpha. Keep searching."
"Roger that, Major," Jayson replied.
He lowered the radio and looked across the parking lot as his operators resumed their search. The team continued checking every corner and possible hiding place, while Jayson remained near the fresh tracks, wondering where they had come from and where they had gone.
Back in the atrium, Gab tightened his grip around his pump-action shotgun as he walked through the damaged corridor. His expression remained composed, but the frustration in his voice was unmistakable as he glanced toward two nearby operators.
"You two, come with me," he ordered.
The two operators looked at each other briefly before nodding. Without another word, they followed Gab as he continued deeper into the Studios.
As they moved through the atrium, a K9 unit arrived alongside several SWAT personnel passing through the area. The trained dogs immediately began sniffing around the corners and inspecting the doors as their handlers guided them through the damaged building.
Gab paid little attention to them.
He continued forward with the two operators following closely behind, his shotgun held firmly against his body. After reaching a staircase, Gab began climbing, carefully watching the area ahead of him.
At the top, something caught his attention.
Weapons and spent shells were scattered across the floor.
Gab slowed down and followed the trail, his eyes moving from one piece of evidence to the next. The trail eventually led him toward a white-colored section of the Studios lined with several rooms and offices.
The area appeared to have been abandoned in a hurry.
A counter stood near the center, covered with scattered files and papers. Some had fallen onto the floor, while dark stains of blood marked parts of the counter and surrounding area.
Gab's eyes continued scanning the room.
Then he spotted something on the floor.
A pistol.
It had been dropped near the counter.
Gab immediately raised two fingers and pointed in opposite directions.
The two operators understood the signal and split up, moving toward separate sections of the room to search for anything that might lead them to the missing detonator.
Gab continued straight toward the counter.
His footsteps slowed as he approached it.
He carefully looked over the scattered files, papers, and bloodstains, searching for anything that seemed out of place.
Then his eyes stopped.
He had noticed something.
Gab hurried toward Jerry's location, running as fast as he could through the damaged corridors. He raced against the clock without stopping, his boots striking the floor as his radio suddenly came alive with multiple channels.
"Sir! We found a bomb! It says two minutes left!"
Other voices followed, some panicking while others shouted over the comms.
"Evacuate the building!"
"Get everyone out!"
Gab ignored the chaos and continued running toward Jerry's position. His focus remained locked ahead until he finally reached the West Wing and found Jerry kneeling beside the bomb.
"Here, Jerry. Can you stop the bomb with this detonator?" Gab asked, struggling to catch his breath as he handed it over.
Jerry looked at the detonator before nodding.
"Yes, but I must be careful taking it off," he replied calmly.
He reached behind his bomb suit and pulled out a screwdriver before carefully positioning himself beside the device. Gab stood nearby, staring at the explosive with nervous anticipation as Jerry began working.
One wrong mistake could end everything.
Jerry studied the exposed wiring. There were numerous connections running through the device, each leading in different directions, and his eyes moved from left to right as he analyzed every wire and connection.
Gab glanced toward the timer.
1:00... 59 seconds.
His expression remained composed, but sweat began forming across his forehead. His radio was filled with panicked voices from SWAT personnel, some calling for evacuation while others continued reporting additional bombs.
Gab didn't move.
He remained beside Jerry.
Jerry continued examining the wiring.
38 seconds.
His hands remained steady as he carefully followed each connection, searching for the correct sequence. Gab eventually reached the point where he couldn't bear to keep watching and briefly looked away, his usual confidence giving way to nervous anticipation.
"Major, what are you doing here?! You should go!" Jerry said, still focused on the wiring.
"Nah, I'm good. Can't leave a soldier to die alone gloriously," Gab replied, softening his tone.
For a moment, Jerry looked toward him.
The two men chuckled.
Then the timer continued.
19 seconds.
Jerry's expression hardened as he finally identified the wiring he needed. He placed his fingers against the black wire and carefully connected the scrambled wiring, causing the countdown to continue dropping.
10 seconds.
Jerry hesitated.
Gab stood beside him, his body tense as he stared at the device. The Major who had remained fearless throughout the entire operation could finally feel fear creeping through him.
5 seconds.
Jerry didn't hesitate anymore.
He grabbed the black wire and pulled.
The countdown stopped.
Silence.
Jerry slowly released his breath.
"Bomb terminated."
The tension that had filled the room immediately disappeared.
Gab stared at the frozen timer for a moment before letting out a breath of his own. Then he broke into laughter.
"HAHAHA! We did it!"
Jerry smiled as the two finally allowed themselves a moment of relief.
For the first time since the operation began, the clock had stopped.
Studios Entrance Way
Outside the Studios — Los Angeles, California
Gab and Jerry finally emerged from the Studios, walking side by side toward the driveway. Jerry carried the disabled bomb carefully in his hands, no longer a threat but now serving as a grim reminder of how close they had come to disaster.
For a brief moment, it almost felt like a victory parade.
Behind them, SWAT officers continued rushing into the building while paramedics moved through the entrance, attending to injured personnel and civilians. The roar of helicopters filled the sky as one aircraft circled above the Studios, its blades cutting through the air while police vehicles continued arriving around the perimeter.
Gab looked across the crowded area and spotted familiar faces.
Private Jayson, Celina, and Sergeant Dakota were standing outside with several Delta Company operators. The moment they saw Gab and Jerry approaching, their expressions immediately brightened.
"Major, you did it!" Celina said cheerfully.
"Yeah, Major. We thought we were gonna die searching for that detonator," Jayson said with a chuckle.
Dakota shook his head with a smile.
"That got me nervous real bad, Major."
Gab looked at the three of them before glancing toward the rest of the team. Despite the exhaustion written across their faces, every operator had remained at their posts and carried out their assignments until the very end.
"Well, it's not just me," Gab said. His voice carried the authority of a commander, but there was genuine appreciation behind it. "You guys did your jobs, too. Good job, team!"
The operators laughed, some shaking their heads while others exchanged relieved smiles.
For a brief moment, the tension that had consumed the Studios finally disappeared.
Around them, the operation continued.
Paramedics hurried between ambulances and the building, carrying medical equipment as they treated the wounded. LACPD officers maintained the perimeter while SWAT teams continued moving into the Studios, securing the remaining areas and assisting with the evacuation.
Above them, a helicopter circled around the building, its powerful searchlight sweeping across the damaged Studios as smoke continued drifting into the evening sky.
The battle was over.
The search was finished.
Southbound Road to San Diego — Los Angeles, California
It was still sunny in the middle of the afternoon, around 1:30 p.m., as Charlie drove the Chevrolet Suburban along the southbound national highway from Los Angeles toward San Diego. Traffic was moderate, with some vehicles moving slowly while others continued smoothly along the road, and beyond the highway, the ocean shimmered beneath the sunlight, its blue waters stretching alongside the beaches to the right.
Charlie kept both hands on the wheel, maintaining a steady speed as the Suburban moved through traffic. In the back seat, Allysa remained shaken from everything that had happened at the Studios, her mind still struggling to process the chaos they had barely escaped.
Beside her, Gary was beginning to feel the effects of his illness more severely.
A chill ran through his body, and his sickness had clearly begun catching up with him. Yet he remained focused on the road ahead, pretending that nothing was wrong as he tried to conceal his condition.
"Patrick, what's your plan now?" Charlie asked calmly.
Gary continued staring through the windshield.
"I don't know yet, Charlie. We just need to lay low for now. As soon as we get there, we'll figure out what to do."
His voice remained composed, but the cold in his body was becoming increasingly noticeable. Allysa quietly listened to their conversation from the back seat.
After a moment, Gary turned his attention toward Charlie.
"And Charlie, how can you be so sure we'll be safe in San Diego, especially with your family living there?" he asked.
Charlie remained focused on the road, his expression confident.
"That place is safe, Patrick. I've been there many times, long before I became Ms. Allysa's driver. I know the area, and I can assure you that we'll be fine there."
His confidence caught Gary's attention.
"But Charlie..." Allysa spoke from the back seat, her voice filled with concern. "I don't want anything bad to happen to your family."
Charlie glanced at her through the rearview mirror before returning his eyes to the road.
"Don't worry about that, Ms. Allysa. They'll be okay."
Gary remained silent.
He studied Charlie through the mirror, observing the driver's unwavering confidence. Something about the way Charlie spoke made him wonder why he seemed so certain that San Diego would keep them safe.
For the moment, however, Gary said nothing.
and everything was silent Gary was staring silently through the windshield as another wave of chills ran through his body. His black jacket did little to keep him warm, and despite his efforts to remain composed, his hands had begun to tremble.
Charlie noticed the change and glanced toward him.
"Hey, Patrick. You okay?" he asked, concern creeping into his voice.
"Yeah... I'm fine," Gary replied.
His voice betrayed him, shaking slightly as another chill ran through his body.
Allysa noticed it from the back seat.
"Patrick, are you lying?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.
Gary turned slightly toward her.
"Why would I lie to you, Allysa?" he replied, calm but slightly defensive.
Then his expression suddenly changed.
"Charlie... stop the car. Now."
Charlie immediately understood.
"Okay."
He carefully pulled the Suburban toward the right side of the highway and brought it to a stop beneath an overpass. Before either of them could say anything else, Gary pushed the door open and stumbled out.
He bent over beside the vehicle and vomited, his body weakened by the sickness that had been catching up with him.
Allysa quickly climbed out of the Suburban.
"Patrick! Are you okay?!" she asked, hurrying toward him.
Gary straightened himself, trying to regain his composure.
"Yeah... I'm alright."
Allysa's expression tightened.
"Stop being stubborn, Patrick!"
"I'm not—"
Gary never finished.
His vision suddenly blurred.
The strength disappeared from his body, and his knees gave way beneath him. He collapsed onto the dirt beside the highway as the world around him began fading into darkness.
"Patrick!"
Allysa rushed toward him.
Gary could no longer move. His vision continued to blur as he struggled to make sense of what was happening around him.
Through the haze, the last thing he saw was Allysa kneeling beside him, her face filled with worry.
Then everything went black.
The adrenaline that had carried him through the chaos at the Studios was finally gone.
Meanwhile, in Los Angeles
The Studios, Los Angeles.
The afternoon sun shone over the Studios, but the atmosphere was anything but peaceful. What had once been a place of creativity and entertainment had become the center of a massive security operation. W.I.A. personnel had secured every perimeter, entrance, and exit, while police officers patrolled the surrounding area. Firefighters and fire trucks remained stationed throughout the vicinity, ready to respond to any remaining danger.
Every vehicle in the area had been properly parked away from the restricted zones, leaving the roads accessible to emergency responders. Tents had been set up for medical assistance and other emergency operations, while crowds gathered behind the security lines to witness the aftermath of the attack. Reporters stood in designated areas, delivering live updates to their audiences as cameras captured the extraordinary scene unfolding around them.
Los Angeles was busy that afternoon, and the Studios had become a focal point of attention.
Major Gabrielle Lopez was helping the medics coordinate their work, ensuring that the injured received the assistance they needed. Nearby, Private Celina remained stationed at one of the gates, keeping a watchful eye on everyone entering or leaving the secured area. Meanwhile, Sergeant Dakota and Private Jayson assisted police officers, pointing out locations of interest and directing them toward areas that required further inspection.
Everyone had a responsibility, and no one appeared willing to let their guard down.
Then, a new presence entered the scene.
A man in a green military uniform walked through the secured perimeter with a straight posture and an unmistakable military bearing. The W.I.A. insignia was displayed prominently on his uniform, and his neatly maintained mustache added to his authoritative appearance. Several W.I.A. personnel followed closely behind him, moving with the same disciplined composure.
The man surveyed the surrounding area as he walked, taking in the emergency crews, the security arrangements, and the damaged Studios building.
Gabrielle noticed him while assisting the medics. The moment he recognized who had arrived, he straightened his posture and raised his right hand in a crisp salute.
"Sir, Cov!" he greeted in a firm military tone.
The nearby Delta Company operators immediately followed his lead, saluting the senior officer as he approached.
General Cov acknowledged their salutes before turning toward Gabrielle. His deep voice carried easily over the surrounding commotion.
"Is everything alright here, Major?"
"Yes, sir. The perimeter is secure, and we've captured three individuals carrying fake identification documents. We suspect they may be connected to the terrorist attack," Gabrielle reported calmly.
General Cov listened carefully, his expression remaining composed.
"Good. What intelligence have you gathered? Who carried out this attack, and who was responsible for targeting the Studios, one of Los Angeles's most prominent entertainment establishments?"
Gabrielle maintained eye contact with his superior, his posture unwavering despite the exhaustion of the operation.
"Our intelligence indicates that this was a coordinated attack, sir. The explosives planted inside the building were positioned as part of a larger plan, with their locations connected to key structural areas of the Studios."
General Cov's gaze sharpened slightly as he considered the report.
"Alright. Has any of the intelligence we've gathered revealed information about the attackers or the people behind them?"
"As of now, sir, we haven't received any conclusive intelligence regarding the individuals responsible for orchestrating the attack. However, we have managed to identify the attackers themselves."
Gabrielle turned toward the nearby operators.
"Private! Bring the files over here!"
One of the operators immediately responded to his command. Moving quickly through the secured area, the private retrieved the requested documents and brought them directly to the major.
Gabrielle accepted the files, checked them briefly, and turned back toward General Cov.
"Here, sir."
He handed the documents to the general.
General Cov took the files and began examining them, his eyes moving across the information compiled by the W.I.A. team. Although his expression remained controlled, a faint hint of satisfaction crossed his face.
"Good work, Major," he said, his voice carrying a subtle note of approval.
"Thank you, sir," Gabrielle replied.
General Cov closed the files and tucked them securely under his arm.
"I'll need to inspect the other areas. Thank you for your time, Major."
"Of course, sir."
He offered Gabrielle a brief smile before turning away and continuing toward another section of the secured perimeter. His W.I.A. security personnel followed behind him, maintaining their positions around the general as they moved through the busy emergency scene.
Among them was a woman wearing a dark gray military suit. Her wavy hair was neatly tied back, and she carried a suitcase in one hand as she walked alongside General Cov and his security personnel. Her presence stood out among the uniformed personnel, though she remained focused on accompanying the general without drawing unnecessary attention.
Gabrielle watched them depart.
Before General Cov moved too far away, he straightened his back and raised his hand once more in a formal salute.
The general continued toward the next area, his entourage following closely behind him, while Gabrielle returned to his duties. Around them, the emergency operation continued without pause—the police investigating, medics assisting the injured, firefighters monitoring the damaged building, and W.I.A. personnel working to uncover the truth behind the attack.
Meanwhile, Somewhere in an Unknown Parking Lot — Sector PF2
The parking lot was brightly illuminated by rows of overhead lights, their glow reflecting off the metallic surfaces of parked vehicles. Grey pavement stretched across the vast area, marked with yellow-and-black painted lines and directional indicators. Above several parking spaces, identifiers designated different sectors, including PF2.
, numerous vehicles occupied the parking lot, their windows reflecting the surrounding structures and the pale lights overhead. Near one of the exits, three vehicles moved slowly in a tight convoy.
Leading the formation was a black Range Rover Evoque, its polished exterior gleaming beneath the artificial lights. Directly behind it followed a dark grey Mercedes-Benz C-Class, its heavily tinted windows reflecting the pavement and the vehicles around it. Bringing up the rear was a dark Range Rover Velar, maintaining a steady distance from the two vehicles ahead.
The convoy advanced toward the crossroads leading outside the parking lot. Its movements were slow and deliberate, the three vehicles maintaining their formation as they approached the exit.
Then, two Chevrolet Express vans suddenly pulled across their path.
The convoy came to a halt.
The vans blocked the exit, leaving the three vehicles with nowhere to proceed. For a moment, the parking lot seemed to fall silent beneath the steady hum of its overhead lights.
Then the rear doors of the Chevrolet Express vans swung open.
Several men climbed out, dressed in black shirts and denim shorts. Balaclavas concealed their faces, leaving little visible beyond their eyes. Some carried baseball bats, while others gripped metal pipes and knives. They spread across the crossroads, positioning themselves in front of the convoy.
Among them stood a particularly intimidating man.
He was muscular, with long hair falling around his shoulders and a prominent scar near his right eye. Anger was written across his face, his expression suggesting that he was already looking for an excuse to start a fight. He stepped forward, gripping his weapon while the men behind him prepared themselves for a confrontation.
His eyes remained fixed on the Mercedes-Benz in the middle of the convoy.
"Senior Robio, if you may, please get out of the car," he demanded, his voice carrying a pronounced Mexican accent.
The men behind him tightened their grips on their weapons.
Inside the convoy, however, nobody appeared particularly surprised.
The rear door of the grey Mercedes-Benz C-Class opened.
A large man emerged from the vehicle, dressed in a black tuxedo that contrasted sharply with the hostile figures blocking the road. He was exceptionally broad and muscular, his solid frame filling the space around him. His rounded face, strong jaw, and circular sunglasses gave him a distinctive appearance, while his composed posture suggested a man who had little reason to be intimidated by the people standing before him.
His sunglasses reflected the lights overhead as he surveyed the confrontation.
Don Robio López.
Senior Robio.
The man the intruders had specifically demanded to see.
He stepped away from the Mercedes-Benz, adjusting his posture as though he had merely been interrupted on his way to an ordinary appointment. There was nothing hurried about his movements, nor did he show any immediate sign of concern.
Behind him, the rear Range Rover Velar opened.
Several men in formal suits stepped out, their expressions hardening as they assessed the situation. Some held baseball bats, while others wore heavy knuckle guards. They positioned themselves behind Robio, forming a protective line without needing to be told.
The contrast was striking.
On one side stood a group of masked men dressed casually, armed with improvised weapons and openly displaying their hostility. On the other stood Robio and his suited entourage, composed and organized despite the confrontation unfolding before them.
Robio turned his attention back to the man with the scar.
He tilted his head slightly, his circular sunglasses concealing his eyes as he regarded the stranger.
"What's your problem, mi amigo?" Robio asked in his distinctly Mexican accent.
His tone was almost conversational. But beneath that casual question was an unmistakable warning. He had stepped out of his car because they had asked him to. Now, they had his attention.
"Ah, Señor Robio. It's nice seeing you."
The long-haired man spoke in a sarcastic, intimidating tone, his eyes fixed on the man standing before him. Robio remained calm, and so did his men. Not one of them appeared particularly concerned by the gang members surrounding their vehicles.
"I told you, if you mess with the Idorgi Gang, you and your crew are dead," the leader threatened, his expression hardening.
"Hey, you and your crew were the ones who attacked first," Robio replied calmly, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the parking lot.
"Bullshit, pendejo! We don't want any bullshit. We settle this, and we settle it now!"
The gang leader's patience had run out. He turned toward his men, his expression twisting with aggression.
"Boys, kill them all!"
The moment the order left his mouth, the parking lot erupted into violence.
The masked gang members charged forward, gripping their bats, metal pipes, and knives. Robio's men moved to meet them, and within seconds, both sides collided in a fierce brawl. The sharp clatter of metal against concrete mixed with the thuds of fists connecting and the scuffling of shoes against the pavement.
Robio faced one of the attackers, a man in a balaclava wielding a baseball bat. The attacker lifted it high and swung downward, but Robio swiftly stepped aside, letting the bat cut through empty air. Before the man could recover, Robio drove a right hook into him, followed with a hard strike to the abdomen, then finished with a kick that sent the attacker crashing onto the pavement.
The bat slipped from the man's grasp and clanged against the concrete.
Nearby, one of Robio's men was locked in an intense exchange with another masked attacker. He threw a right hook, but his opponent dodged it and retaliated with a punch that struck him squarely in the face. The impact forced him backward, but the fight around them showed no sign of slowing.
Elsewhere, another of Robio's men managed to knock a masked gang member to the ground. He quickly disarmed the fallen attacker, wrenching the knife from his grip before the man could use it again. A sharp crack rang out amid the surrounding chaos as the brawl continued to spread across the parking lot.
Then Robio and the long-haired gang leader finally faced each other.
The leader moved first, launching a fast right hook toward Robio's face. Robio ducked slightly, evading the punch, then drove a powerful strike into the man's right abdomen. He maintained a defensive posture, his movements controlled and efficient. The exchange happened so quickly that the gang leader barely had time to react.
But he wasn't finished.
The long-haired man retaliated with a punch that caught Robio in the face, sending his circular sunglasses tumbling onto the pavement.
Robio's expression changed.
The calm, almost indifferent look he'd worn throughout the confrontation disappeared, replaced by a sharper, more serious gaze. He answered with a series of quick jabs, shifting his position to evade the gang leader's counterattacks.
The leader responded with a fast, solid punch. Robio raised his hands to defend himself, absorbing the impact against them. For a brief moment, the two men remained within striking distance, each looking for an opening.
Robio found his.
He drove his large fist into the gang leader's face. The impact snapped the man's head to the side, leaving blood around his mouth. Before the leader could regain his composure, Robio followed with another powerful strike to the abdomen.
The blow forced the man's guard down.
Robio seized the opportunity, delivering a left hook followed by a right. The final punch sent the gang leader crashing to the pavement.
For a moment, Robio stood over him, his breathing steady as the chaos continued around them. Then he looked down at the defeated man, his expression returning to its usual composure.
"Welcome to San Diego, mi amigo."
He delivered the words calmly, as though the confrontation had been little more than an inconvenience.
Robio then bent down, retrieved his circular sunglasses, and put them back on. He straightened his black tuxedo, smoothing the fabric and adjusting his jacket as if restoring his appearance were simply the next item on his agenda.
Around him, the parking lot remained engulfed in the aftermath of the brawl. Weapons lay scattered across the pavement, and men struggled to get back on their feet.
Yet Señor Robio appeared almost indifferent to the disorder surrounding him.
As if he had business to attend to.
And nobody was going to keep him from it.