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My hand froze inches from the cold steel of the Sig Sauer P226. Beneath the amber glow of the bedside lamp, the source of the warmth against my side wasn't an assassin, an operative from a rival syndicate, or a traitorous lieutenant. / Chapter 14 / 20

Chapter 14 - The Final Reckoning

The firefight lasted less than four minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. Working in perfect synchronicity—me from my wheelchair anchored against the concrete block, and Emma firing from a prone position beside me—we cut down the advancing vanguard of Cruz’s assault team. Luke flanked them from the left, eliminating their sniper perched on the rusted skeleton of an abandoned billboard.

When the smoke cleared, silence descended on the wet Chicago street, broken only by the steady hiss of rain and the groaning metal of burning vehicles.

A lone figure stepped out from behind the wreckage of an overturned truck across the highway.

It was Victor Cruz.

He looked older, his face scarred by burn marks from the warehouse fire we had destroyed two years ago, his eyes filled with a psychotic, hollow rage. In his right hand, he held a heavy assault rifle, the barrel smoking in the cold night air.

"Vance!" Cruz screamed, his voice cracking with madness as he began walking slowly toward us across the open asphalt. "You took everything from me! You stole my syndicate, you burned my life to ash, and you left me to rot!"

"You tried to take my legs, Cruz," I called out, my voice carrying steady and cold across the empty lanes. "And you failed to finish the job."

Cruz raised his rifle, aiming directly at my chest. "Time to join the wheelchair in hell, Danny!"

He never got the chance to pull the trigger.

A single, muffled thud echoed from the darkness behind him. A 7.62mm round punched clean through Cruz’s right shoulder, spinning him around and knocking the weapon from his grip. He screamed, dropping to his knees in the middle of the wet highway.

Luke stepped out from the shadows of the overpass, his sniper rifle still smoking, lowering the crosshairs.

I rolled my chair forward, the heavy titanium wheels crunching over broken glass and gravel until I stopped two feet away from the broken, bleeding man who had haunted my nightmares for thirty months.

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Cruz looked up, spitting blood onto the pavement, glaring at me with venomous hatred. "Do it," he spat. "Kill me."

"No," I said softly, looking down at him with absolute, icy detachment. "Death is too easy for a ghost. Luke, lock him in the deep-level holding cells beneath the estate. Let him spend the rest of his life wondering what it feels like to be buried alive."

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