Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Debt Collector's Price: Kabanata 91 - Kabanata 100

GABRIEL'S POVJanuary 19, 2026. 7:14 AM.The temporary tactical office offers no privacy, just a sleek, transparent cage of glass walls and borrowed furniture that smells of lemon polish and anonymity.I stand outside the conference room, watching Isla through the partition.She’s seated at the table, a disassembled Glock 19 spread across a tactical mat like a chaotic puzzle of polymer and steel. A laptop is open next to her, the screen flickering with blue light as it plays an instructional video on a loop. She is fighting with the recoil spring. Her fingers—usually so surgical with spreadsheets—slip against the oiled metal. She curses softly, the sound vibrating against the glass, then rewinds the video to try again.She isn't a soldier. But she is forcing her hands to learn the language of violence, one spring at a time. The "Hired Gun" isn't a metaphor anymore. It is a physical discipline she is carving into her muscle memory.This isn't a CEO preparing for a business trip. This i

GABRIEL'S POVJanuary 19, 2026. 11:03 PM.The secure garage beneath the tactical suite smells of cold concrete and machine oil.It’s a subterranean silence, broken only by the snap of buckles and the slide of zippers. I’m running the equipment check for the 6:00 AM departure. Satellite link. Marine-grade GPS. Emergency beacon.Thermal imaging scope. First aid kit. Waterproof documentation case.I pack everything into two tactical duffels, my hands moving with the muscle memory of a life I thought I’d left behind. This isn't a business trip. It’s a field operation into hostile territory, and I’m treating it with the reverence of a soldier cleaning his rifle.I glance up thr

ISLA'S POVJanuary 20, 2026. 9:03 AM.The Atlantic isn't just water today; it’s a wall of iron-gray violence slamming into us repeatedly.The chartered lobster boat pitches into a twelve-foot swell, the hull groaning under the impact, before dropping into the trough with a stomach-churning weightlessness. Salt spray lashes the windshield, blurring the horizon into a smear of freezing mist. The engine grinds, a mechanical growl fighting a losing battle against the current.Captain Reeves is at the helm, sixty years of weather etched into his knuckles as he fights the wheel. He didn’t ask questions when Gabriel handed him eight hundred dollars in cash for the forty-mile run to Morrison. He just took the money and pointed the bow east.I am huddled in the cabi

ISLA'S POVJanuary 20, 2026. 12:03 PM.The launch cuts a sharp white wake across the gray harbor, carrying my mother and Cartwright toward the heavy industrial silhouettes of the Hale-Sterling Marine vessels. They are retreating to safety while our time evaporates with the tide."We're going to the north face," I say, turning away from the salt spray of the harbor. Gabriel doesn't question the logic or the insanity of the move; he simply nods, scanning the dense tree line where the manicured estate ends and the wild begins.We move off the dock and into the trees, where the island fights us immediately. It is overgrown, a chaotic tangle of pine boughs thick enough to block the iron sky and underbrush that hasn’t been cleared in decades. My boots sink into wet soil that smells of rot and freezing pine needles

ISLA'S POVJanuary 20, 2026. 4:32 PM.The sun is bleeding out into the Atlantic, casting the eastern dock in a bruised, copper light that hurts my eyes.I walk toward the end of the pier. The server module digs into my palm—a block of cold metal, heavy with thirty-seven years of crime.Claire is waiting. Cartwright stands beside her, the briefcase handle gripped so tight his knuckles are white. Behind them, the Hale-Sterling Marine demolition boats sit idle in the harbor, engines cut, bobbing silently like massive, dormant predators.My boots strike the weathered planks. Thud. Thud. Each step vibrates up my shin, deliberate and final.