Chapter 2: A Father's Warning
The elevator hummed with a frequency designed to soothe, all soft lighting and brushed steel, a cathedral of corporate calm. Ghost stood in the center of it, hands clasped behind his back, watching the floor numbers tick upward with the dispassion of a man counting down to an execution. His own reflection stared back at him from the polished doors—a tall, broad-shouldered specter in tactical black, his face a mask of neutrality. No balaclava tonight. This was a business meeting, not a warzone. Though the distinction had blurred over the years.
The doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a reception area that could have doubled as a museum lobby. Marble floors gleamed under recessed lighting. A single orchid sat on a minimalist desk, its petals impossibly white, like something grown in a lab rather than soil. The receptionist—a woman in her forties with severe cheekbones and a suit that cost more than most people's rent—looked up at him with the practiced neutrality of someone who had seen far worse than him walk through these doors.
"Simon Riley," he said. No question in his voice.
She didn't blink. "Mr. Simmons is expecting you. Fourth door on the left. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Ghost offered no acknowledgment beyond a slight tilt of his head. He walked past her desk, his boots making no sound on the marble, a skill honed over decades of moving through places he shouldn't be. The hallway stretched before him, lined with abstract art that probably cost more than the safehouse he'd just left. He passed the first door, the second, the third. At the fourth, he paused, his hand hovering over the brushed bronze handle.
He could feel the weight of the file in his jacket pocket, the one with Drake's sneering face and the list of failed bodyguards. The one that now felt heavier than it had an hour ago.
Ghost opened the door.
Viktor Simmons' office was a monument to control. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall, transforming the city below into a sprawling map of neon veins and distant headlights. The skyline stretched for miles, a glittering testament to the man's empire, each tower a piece on a board only he could see. The rest of the room was sparse—a desk of dark, polished wood, two chairs, a sideboard with a crystal decanter that caught the light like liquid fire. No family photos. No personal touches. Just the cold, sterile hum of servers beneath the floor, a constant reminder of the machinery that kept the world running.
Viktor Simmons himself stood by the window, his back to the room. He was a tall man, lean in the way of someone who had never missed a gym session in thirty years, with silver-streaked hair cropped close to his skull. When he turned, Ghost saw the resemblance to Drake immediately—the same sharp jawline, the same calculating eyes. But where Drake's gaze held a petulant fire, Viktor's was glacial. A man who had long since learned that emotion was a currency best spent sparingly.
"Simon Riley," Viktor said, his voice smooth as polished glass. "I've heard a great deal about you. TF141. The Ghost. They say you're the best."
"They say a lot of things."
Viktor's lips twitched, a ghost of amusement that didn't reach his eyes. He gestured to the chair facing his desk. "Sit."
Ghost didn't move. "I prefer to stand."
For a moment, something flickered in Viktor's expression—annoyance, perhaps, or the faintest trace of respect. He shrugged, a gesture that cost him nothing, and moved behind his desk, settling into his chair with the fluid ease of a predator who knew he was at the top of the food chain. He didn't offer Ghost a drink. He didn't offer pleasantries. He went straight for the throat.
"The threats have escalated," Viktor said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing quarterly earnings. He pulled open a drawer and withdrew a small evidence bag, sliding it across the polished wood toward Ghost. "This arrived at my office three days ago. FedEx, no return address. They tracked the origin to a burner phone purchased in a grocery store in Bratislava. Useless, of course. But the message was... specific."
Ghost picked up the bag. Inside, suspended in the sterile plastic, was a severed finger. Severed cleanly at the second knuckle. The skin was pale, waxy, with a silver ring still wrapped around the base—a signet ring, ornate and old-fashioned. It hadn't been taken off a corpse. The cut was too precise, the flesh too intact. Someone had done this to a living person.
"There's a note," Viktor continued, sliding a second item across the desk. A single sheet of paper, laminated for preservation. The handwriting was neat, almost elegant, in stark contrast to the contents.
Your son's next. We know where he hides. We know who he runs to. You can't protect him forever.
Ghost read it twice, committing every curve and stroke of the handwriting to memory. Then he looked up at Viktor. "They mentioned Drake by name."
"They did." Viktor's jaw tightened, the first crack in his glacial composure. "Up until now, the threats were generic. Corporate. The usual nonsense from competitors who lack the imagination to do anything more than send angry emails. But this—" he gestured to the bag, "—this is personal. They know about him. They know he's back under my roof. And they want me to know they know."
Ghost set the bag down carefully, as if it might bite. "You've had three bodyguards quit on him in the past six months. Kid's a handful. But you didn't bring me in here to warn me about that. You brought me in here to tell me something else."
Viktor's eyes narrowed. For a long moment, he simply studied Ghost, assessing him with the same cold calculation he'd likely used to build his empire. Then he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
"My son is a liability," he said, the words landing like stones. "He's reckless, arrogant, and utterly convinced that the rules of the world don't apply to him. He's been that way since the day he was born. His mother spoiled him. I tried to correct it, but by the time I realized how deeply the rot had set in, it was too late to dig out."
Ghost said nothing. He'd heard this kind of talk before, from wealthy fathers who saw their children as investments rather than people. The sentiment always left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he kept his face blank.
"The day Drake turned eighteen, he moved out," Viktor continued, his voice hardening. "No contact. No explanation. Just a text message telling me he'd rather be dead than live one more day under my roof. I let him go. I told myself it was for the best—that he'd grow up, hit his rock bottom, and come crawling back when he realized the world doesn't hand out trophies for existing."
"But he didn't crawl back."
"No." Viktor's eyes flickered, something dark passing through them. "He built a life. A small one, in a shithole apartment in the East End. He got a job at a record store. Started a band, if you can believe it. He was happy, in his own insufferable way."
Ghost's brow furrowed. "So why drag him back?"
Viktor's expression turned to stone. "Because a year ago, I started receiving threats against my family. Against my wife. Against my business. Against Drake." He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "At first, I assumed it was business. A competitor trying to rattle me. But the threats kept coming, and they kept getting more specific. And when that finger arrived last week, with Drake's name in the note, I made a decision. I sent my men to find him. I dragged him back here, kicking and screaming, and I put him under constant security."
"And he's been punishing you for it ever since."
Viktor's lips twitched, something almost resembling a smile. "You've read the file. You know what I've been dealing with. Three bodyguards, all of them highly recommended, all of them failures. He's turned my home into a warzone. Not with violence—he's not stupid enough to get physical with armed guards. But with words. With silence. With a thousand tiny cruelties designed to make every professional who walks through my door quit within a week."
Ghost's jaw tightened. He'd dealt with bratty VIPs before. Trust-fund kids with more money than sense, celebrities who thought the rules didn't apply to them. But the file had described something else—a kid who wasn't just difficult, but deliberately, methodically destructive. The notes from the previous bodyguards had all mentioned the same thing: The boy doesn't want to be protected. He wants to be left alone.
"Why does he hate you so much?"
The question hung in the air. Viktor's expression flickered, a crack in the ice, and for a moment Ghost saw something underneath—something tired, something almost human. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Because I made him." Viktor's voice was flat. "Because I gave him every opportunity, every advantage, and he chose to throw it all away. Because he thinks my love has a price tag, and he's determined to prove it does."
Ghost held his gaze, reading the space between the words. There was more here, buried layers of history and resentment that Viktor had no intention of revealing. But Ghost knew better than to dig. His job was to keep the kid alive, not to fix the family.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
Viktor rose from his chair, moving toward the window. He stood there for a long moment, silhouetted against the glittering city below, his reflection ghosting across the glass. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of its usual command.
"Keep him alive. That's all I ask. Don't let them touch him." He paused, his shoulders tightening. "Whatever it takes. Whatever he does. Whatever he says to you. Don't let them take my son."
Ghost studied the man's back, the tension visible in the set of his shoulders. This wasn't an act. Whatever Viktor Simmons felt for his son—twisted, complicated, tinged with resentment though it might be—it was real. And real emotion made people dangerous.
"How do I reach you if something comes up?"
Viktor turned, reaching into his pocket. He tossed a small black card across the room, which Ghost caught with practiced ease. No name on it. Just a phone number and a single word: PRIVATE.
"That line is encrypted," Viktor said. "It goes directly to me, at any hour. If my son so much as stubs his toe, I want to know about it."
Ghost tucked the card into his pocket, next to the file. "I've read the file. I know the drill."
"Good." Viktor's eyes met his, cold and unyielding. "One more thing, Mr. Riley. Before we begin. I've done my research on you. I know about your past. I know about the things you've done, the people you've lost. I know that you're not just a bodyguard—you're a weapon."
Ghost said nothing.
"So I'll make this simple." Viktor stepped around his desk, closing the distance between them. He was tall, but Ghost had several inches on him, and the difference was stark when they stood face to face. "My son is the only thing I have left that matters. He's arrogant, ungrateful, and he'll do everything in his power to drive you away. But if he dies, Mr. Riley—if he dies because you failed to do your job—I will make it my life's mission to ensure that you wish you had died with him."
The threat hung in the air, cold and absolute. Ghost met it without flinching.
"I've heard worse," he said.
Viktor's smile was thin, chilling. "I'm sure you have. But I doubt you've heard it from someone who can actually follow through." He turned away, dismissing him. "My driver will take you to the estate. Drake's been informed he's getting a new babysitter. I'm sure he's already planning how to make your life miserable."
Ghost turned toward the door, his hand on the handle. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder at the man silhouetted against the skyline.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I don't quit."
Viktor didn't turn around. "Neither does he."
Ghost stepped through the door and let it close behind him, the soft click of the latch echoing in the empty hallway. The receptionist was still there, her eyes tracking him with the wariness of someone who'd seen a thousand visitors come and go. He walked past her without a word, the file in his pocket a weight that seemed to grow heavier with every step.
The elevator hummed its soothing frequency as it descended, carrying him back down into the neon-lit streets. The rain was still falling, a fine, miserable drizzle that soaked through his jacket within seconds. He stood at the curb, letting the cold settle over him, his mind turning over the pieces of the puzzle Viktor had laid before him.
Threats. A severed finger. A note with Drake's name on it. A father who claimed to love his son but spoke of him like a liability.
And a kid who wanted nothing to do with any of it.
Ghost pulled out the file, flipping to the photo of Drake's sneering face. The kid looked like he'd been born with a middle finger already raised at the world. His eyes held the same fire Ghost had seen in Viktor's—but where Viktor's was cold, calculating, Drake's was molten. Reckless. The kind of fire that burned bright and fast and left nothing but ashes behind.
He traced the edge of the photo, then closed the file and tucked it back into his pocket.
I'll break him by the end of the week.
The thought surfaced unbidden, the words he'd thrown at Price in a fit of bravado. But now, standing in the cold rain with the weight of Viktor's threat pressing on his chest, the boast felt emptier than it had in the safehouse. This kid was a target. A moving, breathing target who made his living making enemies out of the people paid to protect him.
And somewhere out there, someone was coming for him.
Ghost climbed into the black SUV that pulled up at the curb, settling into the back seat as the driver—a stocky man with a shaved head and no conversation—pulled away from the curb. The city slid past the tinted windows, a blur of neon and shadow. He watched it without seeing it, his mind already shifting into the tactical mindset he'd need for the days ahead.
The Simmons estate was a fortress in the hills, all sharp lines and glass walls, a monument to wealth that seemed to sneer at the city below. Ghost took it in with a single, comprehensive glance as the gates swung open, noting the camera placements, the patrol patterns, the blind spots. He'd map the full perimeter tonight, after he'd met the kid.
The driver pulled up to the main entrance and killed the engine. Ghost sat there for a moment, listening to the rain drum against the roof, before he opened the door and stepped out into the night.