Hit-Girl hid behind the cabinet, pinned down by gunfire and unable to raise her head. Worse still, the Russian woman had lifted the sofa again.
Why did she have to abuse the sofa like that?
Wouldn't it be better to throw a grenade?
While changing magazines, one lackey felt the grenade hanging from his waist and was delighted.
Should I blow them up?
Every man had an explosive heart.
His mind was still thinking about it, but his heart had already moved, and so had his hand.
He pulled the pin and made a throwing motion.
Bang!
A bullet from outside the window pierced the glass and drilled straight into his temple.
The grenade was never thrown. It rolled across the floor and came to rest beside one of his companions. The remaining lackeys let out despairing cries.
Boom!
Their cries were swallowed by the explosion.
"Ha ha..."
Big Daddy's hearty laughter rang out from outside the window. He swung down from the rooftop on a rope and blew a lackey's head apart with one shot. Using his momentum, he kicked the tempered glass with both feet.
The glass, already webbed with cracks from the explosion, could no longer hold. Big Daddy smashed through it.
Big Daddy's direction and timing of entry put him face-to-face with Amick behind the desk. He clamped Amick's upper body between his legs, then let go of the rope.
The two rolled across the floor and slammed into the desk together, their blood churning from the impact. Yet neither had time to care about their injuries. They grappled with each other; when their guns fell away, they started trading punches.
Big Daddy hated Amick to the bone. He even opened his mouth and bit him.
In terms of equipment, Big Daddy had the advantage. His