REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 74: Chapter 74

They came in silently.
But not quiet enough. I heard them before I saw them—the subtle crunch of gravel under boots, the faint brush of a gloved hand against a damp pine branch. Six shadows moved through the trees like phantoms—black tactical gear, night-vision goggles glowing green in the mist, rifles angled and ready.
These weren’t random campers or lost hikers. These weren’t burglars or drunk hunters. These were trained men, soldiers without a flag—mercenaries turned ghosts.
I pressed my back to a mossy tree trunk, breath shallow, eyes on the tripwire I’d laid just moments before. The mist curled around my feet like a summoned spirit, hiding me as I crouched low, blade in one hand, my cast iron pan—yes, that pan—in the other.
The leader was tall, with a scar cutting through his buzzed hairline and a combat stance too arrogant for stealth. He moved like he’d done this a hundred times, like mountain terrain was just another office hallway.
Then—snap. His boot caught the tripwire. It happened in slow motion. The wire pulled taut. The rigged branch released. The camping pot tipped.
And boiling oil mixed with pine sap rained hell on him from above.
He screamed—a sound too guttural for the forest to swallow—flailing as his arms blistered instantly. He dropped his rifle, tripped backward, and collided with another operative behind him, taking them both down into a twisted mess of yelps and curses.
That was my signal.
I exploded from my hiding place above—dropping from the low tree branch like a jungle squirrel with vengeance issues and no taxes to file.
The cast iron pan hit the first guy in the neck with a satisfying clang, and he crumpled like a folding chair at a family barbecue. His partner tried to raise a weapon, but my blade met his hand first—cutting clean, fast, and unforgiving.
Blood splashed the underbrush. I spun, only to meet the third. Taller. Bearded. Reeking of ego and regret.
He grinned, teeth yellowed, breath hot and foul. “Found you,” he rasped, knife drawn.
I twirled my blade, lips curled in a smirk. “I was never hiding.”
We clashed. Steel against steel. His knife sliced toward my ribs; I parried, pivoted, used his momentum against him. My knee rammed into his gut, and I slammed the hilt of my knife straight into his temple. His eyes rolled. He dropped.
Three down. But I was already too late. Two more shadows were scaling the trail, heading straight for the rocky overhang—where Jhing Jhing, Mylene, and our kids were hiding.
“NO!” I screamed, the sound more beast than human.
I ran, lungs burning, rain stinging my face. My boots tore through the mud as I hurdled over roots and broken gear. Cookie, MJ’s tiny mutt, barked behind me, then ran ahead—fur soaked and teeth bared.
I could see the goons just ten feet from the hideout. One of them raised his rifle.
Then—
BANG! BANG!
Gunfire exploded through the woods.
One fell—bullet clean through the shoulder. The other spun, caught in the chaos, and took a shot to the leg. A figure dropped from the trees like a movie stuntman. Black tactical armor. Boots laced like a damn military catalog. Sunglasses still on despite the pouring rain.
“Miss me?” he said.
“Joe?” I choked. “You dramatic bastard.”
Joe Freakin’ Smith. In the flesh. Looking like Rambo and James Bond had a baby raised on espresso and sarcasm.
Behind him, his elite team of mercs fanned out—eight of them, in tight formation, all in matching gear. They moved with terrifying precision, descending on the remaining enemies like a SWAT team at a bake sale.
Two of the goons tried to run—bad idea. One was tackled so hard he bounced. The other got darted by one of Joe’s quiet guys—straight to the neck, dropped like a tranquilized hippo.
In under thirty seconds, it was over.
The Aftermath
The chaos had died down—but only slightly.
The mountain was damp, haunted, and smelled vaguely of scorched pine sap and burnt tactical gear. The moon peeked through the clouds like it was spying on us, trying to figure out if this was some action movie, or just an especially violent family reunion.
The kids were safe.
Some were sniffling, others still wide-eyed, but most were already over it and asking the most logical question after a night of gunfire, explosions, and one warrior mom going full rogue assassin:
“Can we eat now?”
“Yes,” I said, barely winded. “But don’t eat anything sticky from the trees. That’s a trap.”
They nodded solemnly like it was normal. Because with us? It was.
We had Aliya, who was asking Joe’s team if their guns were “real or, like, just props from a museum or maybe cosplay.”
Her little brother was chewing a granola bar like it was a victory feast.
MJ was hugging his dog Cookie like he’d just survived an alien invasion, whispering, “I’ll never make fun of your tiny bark again, I swear.”
The twins? Mylene’s adorable, feral duo were literally chewing chocolate wrappers. Wrappers. Not even the chocolate.
Mylene yelped when she saw them and grabbed both by the collars like wet kittens.
“Those were from the emergency snack stash, you little raccoons!”
She collapsed onto a foldable camp chair, clutching Cookie in one arm and both her kids in the other, looking like she’d survived the apocalypse on a diet of stress and sarcasm.
Jhing Jhing, on the other hand, was sobbing.
But not because of fear or trauma.
No.
“My foundation,” she whimpered. “Waterproof, matte finish, 24-hour hold—GONE. And Jun’s hotdog stand! We made that DIY! With Pinterest wood glue!”
I blinked. “We just survived armed mercenaries and that’s what we’re crying about?”
She held up a cracked phone mirror. “My nose contour is gone. I am grieving.”
Honestly? Fair.
As for me, I was still standing over one of the groaning goons, steam rising from my soaked hoodie, cast iron pan in one hand, eyes narrowed.
I yanked his mask off.
My stomach dropped.
I knew that face.
Or more specifically, I knew that mark—the inked spider tattoo just beneath his left ear.
A stylized black widow.
But it wasn’t just the spider. Curled in the design was something worse.
Alec’s family crest.
My family crest.
DARROW.
I straightened slowly, voice cold enough to freeze the air.
“Joe,” I called, not looking away. “These are Alec’s men.”
Joe stepped beside me, hands on his hips like he was waiting for me to admit he was right.
He nodded once. “Not just Alec’s. I did a scan on the way up. These five went dark three months ago. All trained ex-military types. No ties. No paper trail. Now they’re crawling around Wren’s Hilltop? During your picnic?”
He handed me a tablet.
The screen showed a warehouse. Cold. Industrial.
In the center, her.
Dorothy.
Yes, that Dorothy.
The ex I never talk about. The walking disaster wrapped in a Gucci trench coat.
Wearing black.
Blood-red heels.
And her hand resting lightly—possessively—on the shoulder of one of the captured men.
Joe’s mercs stayed sharp behind us, sweeping the area. One was gently declining Aliya’s question about becoming a mercenary “when I grow up—like a cool Barbie version but with sniper goggles.”
The bald, not-too-handsome goon at my feet groaned again.
“You stole everything,” he growled. “She built this. You think she won’t come for it?”
I leaned down until he could see my eyes.
“You think I’m scared of someone who once cried over breaking a nail on a wine cork?” I hissed. “Let her come. I buried kings. I’ll bury her too.”
Joe made a low whistle. “Well,” he muttered. “That’s one way to end a picnic.”