Chapter 3 - THE GHOST OF THE PAST"Talk," I growled, pressing the barrel harder against the bridge of his nose until the skin turned bone-white. "Or the next place you're going isn't a hospital, Vance."
Vance didn't flinch away from the steel. Instead, his laughter turned into a choking rattle. He raised a trembling, blood-stained hand, pointing past my shoulder toward the dark mouth of the alley where the snow was falling heavier now, blanketing the carnage in a pure, deceptive white.
"Too late, boss," Vance choked out, his eyes glazing over with a sudden, horrifying realization. "Look who else decided to RSVP to the party."
A low, mechanical rumble—not of car engines, but of heavy-duty industrial transport—rolled down the side street.
I spun around, keeping my gun trained on Vance while scanning the perimeter. Two massive, unmarked semi-trucks blocked both exits of the alleyway, effectively sealing us in a steel tomb. The doors of the trucks swung open, and out stepped figures clad in heavy tactical gear, wearing helmets bearing no insignia, their faces hidden behind pitch-black ballistic masks.
Not my syndicate. Not local police.
Private military contractors. Elite cleaners who answered only to the highest bidder on the international black market.
"Boss!"
I looked back. The little girl had crawled out from behind the dumpster, clutching the mustard sweater tighter around her small frame. Bear was limping beside her, whining softly, his ears pinned back against his skull as the tactical unit formed a semi-circle around us, dozens of laser sights painting red dots across our chests.
"Who are they?" the girl whispered, her dark eyes looking up at me with a terrifying maturity that no eight-year-old child should ever possess. "Are they the bad men who burned our house?"
"They're worse," I said quietly, lowering my pistols slowly so as not to provoke a premature massacre.
A tall figure stepped out from the center of the tactical formation. He wore a pristine trench coat over his tactical vest, his face obscured by a silver wolf-mask that reflected the flickering amber light of a burning tire nearby.
"Well, well, well," a distorted, synthetic voice echoed from behind the silver mask. "The legendary king of the city, reduced to babysitting stray dogs and orphans in a garbage heap. How the mighty have fallen, Victor."
The sound of my real name—a name I hadn't heard spoken aloud in over a decade—sent a tremor through the freezing air. Only three people in the entire world knew my real first name. One was Elena. One was Julian. And the third...
"Who are you?" I demanded, stepping defensively in front of the little girl.
The man in the silver mask slowly lifted his hands and unclasped the buckle at the back of his head. The mask came off, dropping into the snow with a dull thud.
The breath caught entirely in my throat.
The face staring back at me was pale, scarred with a jagged burn running from the left temple down to the jawline, but the eyes—the cold, calculating, brilliant eyes—were unmistakable.
It was Julian.
May you like
My best friend. The man I had buried six years ago. The man whose coffin I had wept over.
"Surprise, brother," Julian said, offering a tight, humorless smile. "Did you really think a few yards of dirt and a mahogany box could keep me away from what is mine?"
