Chapter 4 - THE TRAP IS SPRUNG
The suite was pitch black, save for the ambient neon glow of the Chicago skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Before the heavy steel door could even click shut behind us, the overhead chandeliers flickered to life with a blinding flash.
"Well, well, well," a smooth, cultured voice echoed from the shadows of the expansive living room. "The deaf dog finally learned how to bark."
Senator Richard Sterling stepped out from behind the mahogany bar, holding a crystal glass of amber scotch. Flanking him on either side were four heavily armored mercenaries wearing private military contractor insignia, their assault rifles raised and leveled squarely at our chests.
Sterling looked immaculate, dressed in a bespoke charcoal tuxedo with a crimson lapel pin. But his eyes were cold, calculating, and devoid of any human warmth.
"Ethan, my boy," Sterling smiled, swirling the ice in his glass. "I must admit, I underestimated you. I thought Victor had you securely locked away in that playroom of his, taking your daily injections to keep you docile. But it seems you found a little playmate to pull the plug."
Ethan didn't flinch. He didn't raise his hands. He just stared at the Senator with a gaze so intense that Sterling’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
"You killed my mother, Richard," Ethan said, his voice echoing off the glass walls. "And you spent twenty-seven years pretending to be my father’s closest political ally."
"Politics is a game of sacrifice, Ethan," Sterling replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "Your father wanted to expose the black-budget medical trials that funded my first Senate campaign. Your mother had her nose where it didn't belong. What were we supposed to do? Let a couple of bleeding-heart idealists tear down everything we built?"
Sterling gestured toward the armed guards with his glass. "Kill the girl first. Let him watch. Then we’ll sedate our dear friend Ethan and ship him off to an offshore black site where no one will ever hear him speak again."
The lead mercenary stepped forward, his rifle safety clicking off with a chilling, metallic snap.
My breath caught in my throat. I looked at Ethan, waiting for him to reach for his Glock, but Ethan’s hands remained casually at his sides.
"You think you’ve won because you have guns, Richard?" Ethan asked softly.
"I know I’ve won," Sterling sneered. "Drop the weapon, Ethan, or her brains decorate this Persian rug."
"You forgot one critical detail," Ethan said, tilting his head slightly toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the Senator. "You invited too many people to the party."
Sterling frowned. "What are you talking about—"
CRASH!
The massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows shattered inward in a deafening explosion of tempered glass and roaring wind.
Before the mercenaries could turn their weapons toward the broken window, three black-clad figures dropped down from grappling lines dangling from a hovering police chopper outside, swinging directly into the penthouse suite like elite urban combatants.
It was Ethan’s loyal underground strike team—men and women he had secretly trained and protected within the Chicago syndicate, completely independent of Victor’s corrupt faction.
Chaos erupted in a heartbeat.
Automatic gunfire filled the suite. Glass shattered into a million glittering diamonds. Two mercenaries went down instantly, neutralized by suppressive fire before they could squeeze their triggers.
Ethan moved with blinding speed, snatching the assault rifle from the hands of a stumbling guard and using it to sweep the legs of the third mercenary.
Senator Sterling dropped his scotch glass, scrambling backward toward the private elevator in sheer panic. "Stop them! Shoot them!" he screamed, clawing at his pocket for an emergency panic button.
I didn't hesitate. I lunged forward, tackling the Senator hard around the waist before he could hit the button. We crashed onto the carpeted floor, sending the emergency remote skittering across the room.
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Ethan stood over us, casting a long, menacing shadow across the cowering politician. He pressed the barrel of his rifle firmly against the center of Senator Sterling’s forehead.
"Game over, Richard," Ethan whispered.
