Chapter 3 - The Ghost Awakens
"They're here," my mother said, her voice remarkably calm. She walked over to a rack on the wall, pulled down a sleek black semi-automatic pistol, cleared the chamber with a practiced clack-clack, and handed it to my father.
I stared at her in absolute shock. "Mom? You too?"
"I was his handler, sweetheart," she said with a faint, grim smile. "How do you think we met?"
Above us, the heavy wooden doors of the workshop were kicked open. Heavy, synchronized footsteps echoed on the floorboards directly over our heads.
"Frank Miller!" a booming voice called out. "Or should we call you Agent Vance's old friend? We know you're in here. Richard wants a word. Bring the girl, and maybe we let the old lady live."
My father didn't flinch. He looked at me, his eyes softening just a fraction. "Mia, hide in the storm bunker at the back of this room. Do not come out until I open the door."
"Dad, there are too many of them!" I cried.
"They brought guns to a carpenter's shop, Mia," my father said, grabbing a heavy steel crowbar from a tool rack and slipping a suppressed pistol into his waistband. "They don't understand the terrain."
He turned off the basement lights, plunging us into darkness, and climbed the stairs.
Through the gaps in the floorboards, I watched the nightmare unfold.
Four heavily armed men in tactical gear moved through the workshop, their flashlights cutting through the sawdust-filled air. They moved like professionals, guns raised, clearing every corner.
"He's not here," one of them radioed. "Check the house—"
Suddenly, the massive industrial dust-collection system roared to life. A blinding cloud of fine cedar dust exploded from the vents, instantly obscuring the flashlight beams and choking the gunmen.
In the chaos, my father moved like a shadow.
He appeared behind the first man. The crowbar swept low, shattering the man's kneecap. Before the man could scream, my father caught his throat, silencing him, and dragged him into the darkness.
A second gunman spun around, firing blindly into the dust cloud. The muzzle flashes illuminated my father’s face for a split second—he looked completely serene. He stepped inside the man's guard, disarmed him with a fluid twist of his wrist, and used the man's own weapon to neutralize his partner.
Within ninety seconds, all four men were on the floor, disarmed, groaning in agony, or unconscious.
My father stood in the center of the workshop, his plaid shirt slightly dusty, holding a radio he had taken from one of the fallen mercenaries.
He pressed the button.
"Richard," my father said into the transmitter.
There was a long pause on the other end. Then, a cold, wealthy voice responded. "Frank. I see you haven't lost your touch. But you're an old man now. You can't protect her forever. My son is in the hospital. You broke his leg in three places."
"He's lucky I let him keep his head," Frank replied. "Listen to me very carefully, Richard. You sent your boy to my daughter's life because you wanted leverage. You wanted the files I took when I retired. You have twenty-four hours to bring your empire to an end, or I will dismantle it piece by piece. Starting with your son."
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"You don't have the leverage anymore, Frank," Richard Vance sneered. "Check your house."
HOOK FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER: A cold realization hits Frank. He looks at his wife. She checks her phone. A live video feed displays Mia's mother's sister—my aunt—tied to a chair in a lavish high-rise apartment, with a gun pointed at her head.
