"Shut the hell up, or I'll kill you!" Merry snarled, his earlier charm completely gone. Then, with a twisted grin, he added, "Save your energy. You'll need it later."

  Manuela fell silent, her wide eyes darting nervously toward the spot where she had claimed to see a bug. The atmosphere in the store grew increasingly tense as time dragged on. The crying had stopped, the despair had faded, and the group's eyes began to communicate silently. Yet, Merry and Nankov seemed oblivious, still holding their guns as Vincent and the others sat with their hands bound behind their backs, leaning against the wall.

  Manuela, the last to get her hands on the scalpel, moved with extreme caution. Her position on the far end of the group left her exposed, with no one to her right to shield her actions. Merry's leering gaze rarely left her, and it was no surprise—Manuela was young, beautiful, and undeniably alluring, qualities that made her stand out even in this dire situation. Unless someone had a twisted preference for younger girls, like Christine, Manuela was the one drawing attention.

  "Ahem." Manuela let out a soft cough, as if clearing her throat. The others understood—she had cut through the ropes binding her wrists. Now, all they needed was the right moment to strike. Nankov stood by the door, while Merry leaned against a shelf near the store entrance, both about five to six meters away. Even with their hands free, the group couldn't act recklessly. The two men were armed, and the distance made it nearly impossible to take them down simultaneously.

  Upstairs, the young black man Brooke had sent to hurry the others along entered a room on the seventh floor. The scene inside was chaotic and depraved. Three women and four men were entangled in various states of undress, their moans and cries filling the air. Two men were sharing one woman, while another man, a burly white guy with a buzz cut, was aggressively dominating a woman in her forties, her mouth still taped shut. The room reeked of sweat and other bodily fluids.

  "Hey, guys, the boss is pissed. He wants you downstairs now. We're leaving!" the black man called out from the doorway, waving his hand to get their attention.

  "Tell that damn Brooke to go to hell! Why should we always listen to him?" the buzz-cut man, named Marler, snapped. He slapped the woman beneath him hard, the sound echoing through the room. She let out a muffled cry of pain.

  The other men in the room laughed, their actions growing even more forceful.

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  "Come on, Marler, if you don't get down there, he'll come up here and kill you," the black man warned. He knew the tension between Marler and Brooke. Marler had always resented Brooke's leadership, though he never dared to challenge him openly. Brooke might not be as physically imposing, but he was ruthless and an excellent shot. Most of the group respected him, and Marler's defiance was usually limited to grumbling behind his back.

  "Alright, alright, I'm coming," Marler grumbled, finally stopping his assault. He untied the woman's hands from the bedpost and lifted her, pressing her against the wall as he continued his brutal act. The wall shook with each thrust.

  The woman, who had resisted fiercely until now, suddenly went limp, as if resigned to her fate. No one noticed that, just a few feet away, on a nightstand by the bed, lay two handguns—Marler's weapons. From the doorway, the black man couldn't see the guns. His eyes were too busy scanning the room, his arousal growing as he watched the scene unfold. In his right hand, he held a shotgun.

  Back in the store on the first floor, Vincent and the others exchanged subtle glances. Vincent had already formulated a plan in his mind, but he couldn't voice it. He could only hope the others would pick up on his cues and act accordingly. The key was to lure both Merry and Nankov closer, but doing so without raising suspicion was a delicate task.

  Suddenly, a loud gunshot rang out from upstairs, followed by several more, including the distinctive blast of a shotgun.

  Everyone in the store froze. Vincent cursed inwardly, his face betraying his urgency. He knew the gunfire would attract the massive horde of zombies nearby. The horde was only about half a kilometer away, and with the winding streets, it would take them no more than three minutes to reach the store.

  Three minutes. That was all they had.

  In those three minutes, Vincent and the group had to overpower their captors, rescue the older man and his daughter who had helped them, and get the vehicles running to escape. It was a daunting task, especially since they still hadn't figured out how to lure Merry and Nankov closer without raising suspicion.

  Vincent glanced at Robbie, who met his gaze with a look of shared understanding. They both knew the stakes.

  "What the hell is going on?" Brooke shouted from outside, jumping out of the truck and storming into the store with one of his men. He glanced at Vincent's group, barking, "Keep an eye on them!" before rushing upstairs, his face dark with anger.

  Now, most of Brooke's men were either upstairs or on their way up, leaving only four downstairs—two guarding the street and two inside the store watching Vincent's group.

  "Hey! I need to use the bathroom. Can someone take me?" Jason suddenly spoke up, struggling to his feet with his hands still behind his back. He swayed slightly, as if desperate.

  "Don't move! Piss your pants if you have to. Move again, and I'll shoot you," Nankov growled, adjusting his aim toward Jason. He was still nursing his injured leg and in no mood for requests.

  "Okay, okay... I won't move," Jason said, slowly sitting back down.

  Time was running out. The gunfire upstairs continued, and Vincent's anxiety grew. He fought the urge to leap up and attack, knowing it would be suicidal. But with only half their time left, he had to think fast.

  What could they do?