CHAPTER 455: HOSPITAL UNDER ATTACK 2

A man in a black suit sat at a desk with his back to the door.

The man tilted his head slightly, eyeing the newcomers, then returned to scrolling through the laptop in front of him.

"Just say what you need to say."

The deliberately lowered voice carried a distinct edge of impatience.

Clearly, the speaker had more pressing matters at hand and little time to spare for them.

On the hospital bed, a woman lay bundled under the covers, only her delicate brows and eyes visible.

The hospital director, too nervous to meet their gaze, failed to notice anything amiss.

The bespectacled man spoke first.

"Mrs. Luther, your test results indicate some irregularities in your health.

Let me show you the report."

"Alright," the woman murmured from beneath the blankets, her voice muffled and frail.

"Bring it here."

"Of course."

A glint of triumph flickered deep in the bespectacled man’s eyes as he stepped past the director, moving toward the bed with the medical file in hand.

Deliberately, he positioned himself to block the woman’s line of sight.

His companion knew the moment had arrived.

Seizing the opportunity, he moved silently toward the man seated at the desk, his back turned to them.

Oh my God, the worst is about to happen!

Dear Lord, protect us!!

The hospital director recoiled into the corner in terror, clutching the cross hanging around his neck.

His aged body trembled slightly as he squeezed his eyes shut in desperate prayer.

A bespectacled doctor in black-framed glasses stepped up to the hospital bed and leaned down slightly.

Sinclair placed the medical chart in his hands before the woman lying there, flipping it open slowly.

But inside wasn’t a report—it was a gleaming dagger, cold and sharp.

Now!!

The man’s eyes suddenly flashed with malice.

In one swift motion, he clamped a hand over the woman’s mouth while pressing the blade toward her throat, intent on subduing her.

"Don’t move if you want to live—"

Before he could finish, the pale, frail woman—who had seemed weak and listless just moments ago—suddenly shot her hand out from under the covers and seized his wrist in an iron grip.

The man’s eyes widened in shock, but he had no time to react.

With a sharp twist, the woman wrenched his arm backward with brutal force.

**CRACK—**

The sound of snapping bone echoed through the silent ward, crisp and unmistakable.

A strangled cry of pain burst from the man’s lips.

"SHIT!!"

His hand, which had been covering the woman’s mouth, instantly withdrew and instead clamped around her slender neck, intending to snap it in one swift motion.

No witnesses could be left alive—she had to die.

"You think a pathetic fool like you can kill me?"

The woman wasn’t about to let him succeed.

In one fluid motion, she lifted her leg and drove it—along with the tangled bedsheet—straight into the man’s abdomen, sending him stumbling back two steps.

What seemed like a drawn-out struggle had actually unfolded in mere seconds.

By the time the director turned toward the commotion, his jaw had gone slack, his entire body frozen in shock.

Was this... America martial arts?

No—wait.

Mrs. Luther actually knew martial arts?!

So the old rumors about every American person knowing how to defend themselves weren’t entirely baseless after all.

Clearly, unfamiliar with country E features, he still hadn’t noticed anything amiss about the "Camilla" standing before him.

Meanwhile.

The man who had approached "Sinclair’s" bedside stiffened the moment the struggle erupted, his eyes darkening with cold fury.

Damn it—they’d been discovered!

Abandoning his original plan to use a blade, he decided to end this quickly.

In a flash, the man pulled out a silenced pistol hidden in his pocket and swiftly raised it, aiming directly at ’Sinclair’s’ head.

But as fast as he was, ’Sinclair’ moved faster. Before the attacker could pull the trigger, ’Sinclair’ yanked a dagger from beneath the computer desk.

In one fluid motion, he pivoted, delivering a sharp side kick that sent the gun clattering across the floor.

At the same time, his other hand drove the blade clean through the man’s throat—right to left—with brutal precision.

The attack was lightning-fast, merciless, leaving no room for reaction.

*Thwack—*

Blood sprayed in all directions, splattering across ’Sinclair’s’ face—a face that bore an uncanny resemblance to the real Sinclair Luther.

Yet not a flicker of emotion crossed his features.

*How... how can a American man move like that?*

The assassin’s eyes bulged in disbelief, his mouth frothing with blood as his body convulsed.

Then, with a final shudder, he went still.

’Sinclair’ released his grip, and the lifeless body crumpled to the ground like a ragdoll.

*Dead?*

*Dear God!*

The director, who had been trembling in fear from the start, now felt his terror deepen tenfold.

On the other side.

The bespectacled man in a doctor’s outfit staggered back two steps to steady himself, his face darkening with malice as he lunged at the woman again.

Despite his injured arm, his reflexes and combat skills were far from weak—otherwise, he wouldn’t have been entrusted with the primary mission.

But in many situations, success hinges on perfect timing, favorable conditions, and sheer luck.

Once the upper hand is lost, there’s no turning the tables.

The woman didn’t give him another chance.

She met his charge head-on.

As the two clashed, the hospital room door swung open.

Ramsey strode in, his expression icy, flanked by over a dozen mercenaries.

Ramsey took in the scene without a flicker of surprise.

Stepping past the chaos, he approached the elderly man cowering in the corner, trembling uncontrollably.

"Director—"

The director’s face was deathly pale, his voice quivering with fear.

"I-I’m sorry!

Those two bastards held me at gunpoint! I didn’t have a choice!"

"I know," Ramsey replied, his tone softening slightly.

"You’ve been through enough. It’s over now. Go outside and rest."

When faced with life-threatening situations, it’s only human nature to act in self-preservation.

They wouldn’t go so far as to harm ordinary civilians.

Seeing that Ramsey bore no grudge against

him, the director nodded repeatedly in relief.

The director wanted to flee this dangerous place, but his legs had turned to jelly from sheer terror, leaving him unable to move.

"Escort him out."

"Yes, sir."

A mercenary stepped forward and helped the trembling man out.

The male assailant kept a wary eye on Ramsey’s direction, his attention momentarily divided.

Seizing the opportunity, the woman struck with ruthless precision, swiftly pinning him to the ground.

’fake Sinclair’ approached and, with practiced efficiency, dislocated the man’s jaw and limbs to prevent any suicide attempts.

Other mercenaries immediately moved in, binding the subdued man before hauling him away.

"Assistant Ramsey."

"Assistant Ramsey."

The two operatives rose and gave Ramsey a respectful nod.

"Well done," Ramsey handed each of them a card. "This is a bonus from Mr. Luther.

Go take a break."

Being a double ganger was the most dangerous job among mercenaries—and naturally, the highest-paid.

It was Mr. Luther’s rule is to give an extra reward after every mission.

"Understood."

The two men nodded, pocketed the money, and left.