Chapter Twenty-Two–The Hit

Kael sped on the silent and lonely highway. He was looking at Anna intermittently through the rearview mirror. She was just still and her face was blank and void of any emotions.

“Ma'am, are you okay?” Kael asked in concern.

“Can you f*cking stop calling me ma'am?” She exploded like a ticking bomb. Her eyes were heavy with rage and she just spat out one percent of it at Kael. Then she muttered. “I'm not hit”

“You are not? That was a precise target by the. . .” Kael suddenly stopped what he was saying. As if on cue, he and Anna both transferred their gaze to Khaid who was looking ahead. His mouth was paused and his eyes were dark and blank.

“Khaid, did the bullet hit you?” Anna grew hysterical.

“I’m fine. It only grazed my shoulder” He responded.

“I don't believe you” Anna then turned to Kael. “Put that goddamn doctor on the line this minute and step on the f*cking brakes!”

Without waiting for further instructions, Kael stepped on the brakes and sped off like a mad man on the trail.

“I'm f*cking going to kill specter. He dared ambush us! Openly!” Anna's eyes were glazing red.

“He didn't order this hit. It was a separate person but whoever it is wouldn't escape the shit I fired” Khaid smiled like a maniac while speaking.

“What did you do?” Anna raised her brows.

“Just a little ‘thank you for the hospitality’ gift for Specter, you know” He was laughing out loud now. He groaned a little and held his stomach. It was actually not his shoulder that got grazed by the bullet, it was his stomach.

“You're worse than your father, Khaid Nicholas Jager, aren't you?” Anna had a lopsided smile on and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Isn’t ‘better’ the right word in this context?” Khaid smirked.

Kael only listened to the two siblings and concentrated on speeding towards home.

★

Specter's Arena

The sudden, sharp sound of the gunshot had sent shockwaves through The Specter's arena.

He watched Khaid’s black sedan speed away and then stormed back into the throne room, his face contorted with fury.

“Gather everyone , now!” His voice was like thunder. The sheer audacity of the attack, occurring moments after he had just pledged safe passage, was a direct challenge to his authority and neutrality.

He stood in the center of the vast throne room, towering over his assembled security. The guards were lined up rigidly, their faces grim, anticipating his explosive anger.

“WHO DID THAT?” The Specter's voice was a low, dangerous growl, demanding an answer that cut through the fear. “Which fool dares to fire a weapon at a Jager from my territory? Speak now!”

Silence. The guards murmured anxiously amongst themselves, their heads bowed low, refusing to make eye contact. No one confessed. The tension stretched taut, thick enough to choke on. Specter stared at the line of silent men, his massive hands clenched into fists that could crush stone.

Then, slowly, a change washed over his face. The fury drained away, replaced by a slow, proud, cocky smile.

“Ah, I see,” Specter boomed, his voice now booming with approval rather than rage. “The mouse has a tooth after all! Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant timing!”

The guards lifted their heads, their faces a mixture of confusion and surprise. Specter was supposed to be upholding the peace, yet he was celebrating an assassination attempt on the Jagers

.

“Whoever executed that warning shot” The Specter announced, pacing the floor with renewed energy, “you demonstrated Jager-level precision! You reminded Nicholas that even in the heart of the old guard, he is not safe! I commend your nerve!”

He stopped, his mood turning serious once more, though the pride remained. “However,” he warned, his voice dropping, “next time, do not do it so directly. Our motto, gentlemen, is our shield. The Specter Clan are the lawyers of the Mafia world! We stand for balance. We must be perceived as fair and neutral in all matters. The shot was a message, yes, but it must never be traced back to my command. Understand? We give counsel, we do not fire the first shot.”

At the far end of the queue, hidden skillfully behind the larger frames of two senior security officers, stood Qye. She was holding her tummy stylishly, pressing her fingers just below her ribcage. She was grimacing in pain, her face momentarily contracting from the sharp internal discomfort, but she executed the expression without attracting any attention from Specter or the nearby men. The immense effort of controlling her breathing masked the internal bleed from the counter shot by Khaid.

The shot was hers. The target, however, had not been Khaid, but Anna.

Qye and Anna had a deep-seated, bitter feud that dated back to a pivotal, brutal internal Clan competition years ago. It was the day Anna defeated Qye in a public display of combat proficiency and inflicted a wound that turned to a visible scar on Qye’s shoulder. Qye had never forgotten the shame and the physical defeat.

The Specter concluded his address. “Now, disperse! Get back to your posts. And keep your eyes open. We are not partakers of this war. We are peace makers that know how to be trouble makers when need be!”

The guards quickly melted away, leaving Specter alone in his echoing throne room, satisfied that he had both asserted his neutrality and executed a warning against the new king. Qye, clutching her injury, vanished into the shadows.

As he was about to take his seat, a sudden blast sound rocked the room and he quickly stood at alert. “Where's that?” He shouted to no one in particular.

His right hand man ran in immediately. “Boss, the warehouse is in shambles. It is a bomb”

★

Khaid's Penthouse. . . 2am

Kael drove the armored sedan through the inner gate of Lot 27, parking in the secure underground garage. The atmosphere was tight, still vibrating with the shock of the gunshot at Specter's warehouse.

Khaid exited the car first, moving with rigid control. It was dark in the garage, a fortunate circumstance, as no one could see the blood trickling down his side, seeping slowly into the fabric of his expensive suit. He had taken a near-miss from the warning shot, or perhaps been grazed by debris. He straightened his posture, masking the sharp contortion of pain.

He turned to Anna, who was already reaching for her door handle.

“Are you sure you don't want to come inside, Anna?” Khaid asked, his voice low, a formality driven by the recent threat.

Anna paused, checking her phone. “I just got a text from Father. He requests my presence right now. Something about a financial ledger that needs ‘immediate reconciliation.’ You know how he is.”

“Fine,” Khaid said, nodding toward Kael. “Kael, make sure she gets home safe. Don't leave her until she's inside Nepher's compound.”

Anna scoffed, a quick, dismissive sound. “I am not a baby, Nicholas. I can navigate traffic.”

“Follow the order, Kael” Khaid instructed, ignoring Anna's protest.

Khaid stood watching as Kael nodded, swiftly reversing his car and speeding out through the inner gate to escort his sister. Only when the silence of the fortress closed back in around him did Khaid finally allow his mask to drop.

“Arggghhh” Khaid groaned under his breath. He walked slowly, heavily, toward the entrance to the Central Sitting Room. His face, now unobserved, was contorted in raw pain, the effort of maintaining his composure having severely aggravated the wound. He pushed the door to the sitting room open, expecting the cold, empty silence of the large space.

Instead, his eyes immediately snagged on a figure sprawled on the immense leather couch.

Instantly, the pain was overridden by a surge of pure, lethal adrenaline. All his trained defense senses stood at alert. His body snapped from an injured stagger to a warrior's rigid stance. The figure was small, dressed in white, utterly motionless.

He wondered how. The security protocols around the Central Wing were triple-layered.

Khaid walked in slow, stealth steps toward the figure. His hand vanished inside his suit, bringing out his specialized handgun with practiced fluidity. He reached the couch, towering over the sleeping form. The air was thick with the scent of leather, dust, and something faint, herbal, and alien to his space.

Khaid raised the gun, the cold muzzle pressing hard against the temple of the sleeping woman.

“Who are you?” Khaid's voice was a barely audible, menacing hiss, a lethal sound that ripped through Bluey's sleep.

Bluey jolted awake, her eyes snapping open to the sight of the dark, looming figure and the cold, unyielding pressure of metal against her skin. She blinked, paralyzed by fear and confusion, the realization of where she was hitting her instantly.

In a shrill, scared voice, she answered, the words escaping in a rushed gasp. “It's me! It's me! Bluey”

“You sly thing” He hissed in pain and collapsed on the chair beside her.