Chapter 7 - THE PHANTOM IN THE APARTMENTMidnight at my old apartment building was suffocatingly quiet.
The snow fell in thick, heavy sheets outside, blanketing the desolate street where the black SUV had parked days ago. Inside my tiny apartment, everything was pitch black. The police had picked the lock hours ago, turning the place upside down looking for fingerprints, hidden cash, or any shred of evidence linking me to Grant Mercer.
Detective Thomas Reed stood in the center of my ransacked living room, flashlight in hand, a smug, venomous grin plastered across his face.
“Nothing,” muttered one of the corrupt tactical officers accompanying him, kicking a stray sofa cushion. “No burner phones, no ledger, no sign of the nurse.”
“Keep looking,” Reed snapped, his voice dripping with venom. “The girl was hiding something big. Mercer doesn't just kidnap random ER nurses and keep them alive unless she holds a key to his entire operation. Tear the floorboards up if you have to.”
Suddenly, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered violently.
Buzz. Click. Pop.
Then, darkness. Total, pitch-black darkness, save for the weak beams of the tactical flashlights.
“What the hell?” the officer swore, reaching for his sidearm.
Before anyone could react, the deadbolt on the apartment front door clicked open. A heavy, rhythmic set of footsteps echoed slowly down the small entryway hall.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Reed spun around, lifting his flashlight and leveling his service weapon toward the doorway. “Who’s there? Identify yourself! CPD!”
The beam of the flashlight cut through the dark, illuminating a tall, imposing figure standing calmly in the doorway.
A sharp charcoal suit. Impeccable posture. A cold, unblinking stare.
Grant Mercer.
He walked into the apartment as if he owned the building, completely ignoring the drawn firearm pointed directly at his chest.
“Detective Reed,” Grant said smoothly, his voice echoing off the bare walls. “You really shouldn't break into a lady's home when she’s not around. It’s terribly impolite.”
Reed’s face drained of color. His hand shook slightly as he gripped his gun. “Grant Mercer... you’re a ghost. You should be dead.”
“A common misconception,” Grant replied, taking another step forward. “Just ask the nurse who stitched me back together. Speaking of whom... you’ve been making quite a mess trying to find her.”
“Shoot him!” Reed screamed at his corrupt officers, panic fracturing his voice. “Shoot him right now!”
The officers raised their weapons—but before their fingers could squeeze the triggers, the windows lining the living room shattered inward in a deafening cascade of glass and splintered wood.
Flash-bang grenades cascaded across the floor.
FLASH! BANG!
Blinding white light and earth-shattering concussive blasts ripped through the room. The corrupt cops dropped their weapons, screaming, clutching their ringing ears, and collapsing to the floor in total disorientation.
From the shadows of the broken windows, Grant’s elite tactical team swarmed into the apartment like ghosts, subduing the disoriented officers in seconds with ruthless, silent efficiency.
Reed staggered backward, his vision blurred, his gun slipping from his numb fingers and clattering onto the floorboards.
Grant walked up to the terrified detective, towering over him, and slowly crouched down to look him dead in the eye.
“You sold out my city to Viktor Vance,” Grant whispered, his voice like grinding ice. “You threatened an innocent woman who only wanted to save a life.”
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Reed gasped for breath, trembling violently. “Vance... Vance will kill you. He owns half the department—”
“Vance owns ghosts,” Grant interrupted quietly. He stood up, signaling to his men. “Bag him. We’re taking our corrupt little detective on a trip.”
