Chapter 17 - The Ghost Returns
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Matthias looked entirely different from the cowardly banker who had begged for his life in the Greenwich study. His hair was slicked back, his eyes hollow and wired on whatever narcotics his new cartel friends were feeding him. The bespoke suit was the same, but the man wearing it had completely snapped.
“You look terrible, Matthias,” Silas said coldly, keeping his gun aimed directly at Matthias’s chest. “You should have stayed dead.”
“And let you steal my twelve million?” Matthias laughed, stepping further into the penthouse. Behind him, two more heavily armed mercenaries moved into the room, fanning out to cover Silas. “I earned that money, Silas. I suffered for it. Do you know what they did to me before I convinced them I was useful? Do you know what Vargas did to Fiona?”
Serena clutched her baby tighter, shivering at the absolute madness in her ex-husband’s voice.
“I don't care what they did to you,” Serena said, her voice raspy but defiant. “You brought this on yourself.”
Matthias’s eyes snapped to her, burning with hatred. “Shut up! You arrogant, self-righteous nurse. You thought you could just discard me? You thought you could upgrade to a Chicago warlord and live happily ever after? I own you, Serena! That baby is my blood!”
Matthias raised the silver revolver, aiming it directly at Serena.
“Drop the gun, Silas,” Matthias commanded. “Or I put a bullet in the mother of my child. And then I’ll take the baby back to Mexico with me.”
Silas didn't move. His jaw tightened, calculating the angles. He could kill Matthias instantly, but the two mercenaries flanking him would open fire on the sofa before Silas could drop them both.
“You shoot her, and I will spend the next three days peeling your skin off with a paring knife,” Silas promised, his voice a terrifying, quiet whisper.
“Drop the gun!” Matthias screamed, pulling the hammer back on the revolver.
Slowly, Silas lowered his weapon. He uncurled his fingers and let the heavy pistol drop to the floor. It hit the hardwood with a dull thud.
Matthias smiled in triumph. He gestured to his mercenaries. “Kill him.”
The mercenaries raised their rifles.
Suddenly, the air pressure in the room shifted. A massive, deafening explosion ripped through the ceiling of the penthouse.
Chunks of concrete, steel rebar, and glass rained down directly on top of the mercenaries. The men in the helicopter outside hadn't been trying to breach the windows; they had been planting shaped charges on the roof above the penthouse.
But Matthias didn't control the helicopter.
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From the smoking hole in the ceiling, a dozen men dropped into the room on tactical zip-lines. They were dressed in all black, heavily armed, and moved with terrifying precision.
They weren't Matthias’s men. They were Silas’s elite strike team.
