Chapter 2

Chris POV

I started walking back toward my hideout, keeping my pace even despite the hot, stinging

feeling in my shoulder. The night air was sharp against the drying blood on my sleeve, but I paid

it no mind. Hurt is just proof you’re still breathing.

About halfway there, the phone in my pocket buzzed again.

Unknown caller.

I stopped beneath a weak streetlight that sputtered overhead and picked up without a greeting.

“You succeeded.” The voice was the same as before—deep, smooth, and perfectly controlled.

I managed a quiet chuckle. “Succeeded at what?”

“Passing a test.”

I leaned against a brick wall, my eyes drifting over the empty street, cataloging every shadow.

“You call six armed men a ‘test’?”

“You neutralized them,” he corrected.

“And if I hadn’t?” I asked, my tone utterly level.

A measured silence hung on the line, heavy with implication.

“Then we wouldn't be having this conversation now.”

I glanced down at the dark patch bleeding through my sleeve where the bullet had merely

nicked me. It wasn't a serious wound, but it was a vivid reminder of how thin the margin for error

is. “You are fortunate I decided not to track you down,” I stated calmly.

“You won’t,” he assured me. “Because what comes next is far more important than hurt

feelings.”

That snagged my attention immediately. “How big are we talking?”

“Number Three.”

My jaw clenched almost imperceptibly.

In Lawson City, the criminal hierarchy was common knowledge. Many gangs operated, but only

three truly held the reins. The third group, the Monkey Group, wasn’t the loudest or the flashiest,

but they were known for being ruthlessly effective and incredibly quiet. They moved vast sums

of illicit wealth and made problems—or people—vanish without a ripple.

“They require an acquisition,” the voice went on.

“And they think I’m the tool for the job?”

“You are more than capable.”

A small buzz signaled a text message in my hand.

“Call the number we just sent you. They will talk to you directly.”

“And you step away?”

“Our involvement is concluded.”

I looked up at the sky, where thick clouds were beginning to choke out the stars. The

atmosphere felt charged, promising a storm. “Very well.”

The line went dead.

I opened the message. Another string of digits, another unknown contact. No name attached. I

pressed ‘Call’ right away.

It rang twice before a new voice answered. This one was completely different—rougher,

authoritative, yet still possessing a chilling calmness.

“You are Ghost.” It wasn't a question.

“I am,” I confirmed.

“We’ve heard the stories. You operate with precision.”

“I operate effectively,” I countered.

A faint, humorless sound escaped the receiver. “You’ll fit in well here.”

I waited, offering nothing else.

“You are speaking to the Monkey Group.”

The name itself was unsettling, but hearing it spoken aloud carried a genuine impact. The third

power in the city.

“What is the target?” I asked, getting straight to the point.

“It’s substantial.”

“They always are.”

“This job will shift the city’s balance of power.”

That got my full focus. A shift in power.

“Our target is the wealthiest man in Lawson City.”

I kept my expression neutral. I’ve learned that showing shock only gives leverage to the other

side.

“His name.”

“Matt Davis.”

The name resonated. Matt Davis. The magnate. CEO of the sprawling Davis Empire. A public

face, always seen in custom suits, always smiling politely for the cameras.

“Why?” I inquired.

“You don’t require context.”

I allowed myself a small, tight smirk. “Fair enough.”

“You will be compensated twice your previous highest rate.”

Now *that* was worth considering.

“And the defenses?” I asked, knowing this was the crucial detail.

“Hardened steel. Private security teams. Advanced technology. Men utterly devoted to him.”

“I’ve broken steel before.”

He paused, then asked the only query that truly mattered: “Can you accomplish this?”

“Yes.”

There was zero hesitation in my answer.

“Be extremely careful,” he advised.

“Caution is my nature,” I replied.

The connection severed. I slowly lowered the phone, staring down the dark, empty stretch of

road ahead.

Matt Davis. This was far beyond a standard hit.

***

Back in the quiet bunker beneath the auto shop, I shed my jacket and began tending to the

shoulder graze. The disinfectant burned sharply against the raw skin, but I didn’t even breathe

through my teeth. Physical discomfort was meaningless noise.

I wrapped the wound neatly and moved to my desk. The laptop screen flared to life in the

underground gloom, running a secure, untraceable network.

I typed the name. Matt Davis.

His picture loaded instantly. Sharp features, a hint of silver at his temples, and that practiced,

reassuring smile. The kind of man people inherently trust.

CEO of the Davis Empire. Construction, tech, energy—his reach covered the whole city.

I studied his public appearances: charity galas, meetings with city officials, smiling beside

children. His reputation was polished to a mirror sheen.

Too polished.

I bypassed the public photos and dove into the structure of his protection. Security schedules,

vehicle tracking, traffic flow around the corporate tower.

The Davis Empire HQ was a glass monolith at the city’s heart. His underground parking was

guarded by dark cars and men in black suits. Their bearing wasn't just professional; it was

militant.

Trained operatives. Interesting.

That evening, I shadowed his transport when it left the office. An armored vehicle sat in the

center, flanked by two SUVs front and back. A tight, tactical cage.

They navigated the busy roads before turning into the exclusive Uptown district—where the

houses became estates and the gates grew impossibly high.

The convoy finally pulled onto a long, tree-lined private drive, disappearing behind imposing iron

gates guarded by automated turrets and high-definition cameras.

I drove slowly past the entrance without looking, having already etched the entire layout into my

memory.

***

Two nights later, I returned.

I was dressed entirely in black, light on gear. No rifle this time; too bulky for the insertion.

I parked blocks away and approached on foot. The mansion was visible over the walls, its

windows glowing warmly, hinting at soft music playing within. The walls were smooth,

inescapable, lined with slowly scanning cameras. His perimeter guards moved with that same

precise, military cadence.

This was not the security detail of a mere wealthy businessman.

When a camera turned away, I moved. I sprinted silently, leaped, and gripped the top edge of

the stone wall, pulling myself over before dropping soundlessly onto the manicured lawn inside.

The grounds were an expensive museum: fountains, sculptures, classic cars parked perfectly.

Two guards passed nearby, their voices hushed. “…he’s meeting them tomorrow.”

“Big deal,” the other agreed.

Their words drifted away on the breeze. Who was ‘them’?

I stayed low, using the shadows of the parked vehicles as cover. Every walkway seemed

monitored, every blind spot covered.

I reached the side of the house, positioning myself beneath a second-story balcony. Using the

ornamental carvings in the stone as handholds, I began to climb.

Halfway up, the balcony door slid open. A guard stepped out, his eyes sweeping the yard. My

body flattened against the cold stone, muscles locked. For a tense moment, I thought he’d

spotted me.

Then, he retreated inside, closing the door behind him.

I finished the ascent and slipped onto the balcony without a sound. The bedroom inside was

only dimly lit. On a large wooden desk near the window sat silver-framed pictures. Matt Davis,

not just shaking hands with politicians, but standing shoulder-to-shoulder with men who looked

far more like enforcers than financiers.

Who on earth was Matt Davis?

Faint footsteps sounded from the hallway beyond the room.

I moved toward the bedroom’s internal door, listening intently.

“He doesn't trust anyone.”

“He shouldn’t,” came the reply.

“After what happened to…” The voice trailed off, lost before I could catch the end of the

sentence.

After what happened to whom?