2. Jayson
JAYSON
I find Ghost downstairs, leaning casually against the black SUV like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Which, truth be told, he probably doesn’t. I mean, it’s not every day that a man gets a do over.
He’s wearing a black hoodie that covers his head and rides low over his brows. His jeans are loose fit but look like they were tailor made for him. His thing is steel-toed boots; in all the weeks I’ve known him, I’ve never seen his feet in anything but a pair of steel-toed boots.
His new face is a rough draft—surgical scars hidden under five day growth, cheekbones too sharp, eyes wild but what others may consider beautiful. Same old chaos, just dressed in different skin.
“Took you long enough,” he grins. “Trying to shake off your anxiety?”
I narrow my eyes and slide him a look, before I walk to the passenger side of the vehicle. He slides into the driver’s seat, muttering something under his breath about suits and sociopaths. I don’t respond. Just get in, shut the door, and sit in silence .
He’s too big for the car, his huge frame suffocating the silence.
We drive. I watch the streets blur by—greasy diners, shuttered storefronts, high-rises built on the fault line of a city teetering on chaos.
Ghost keeps talking. I let him. For a man of little words, Ghost is exceptionally chatty tonight, and I have to wonder if he’s more anxious than I am.
“You ever think about getting out?” he asks after a while. “Fake name. Clean passport. New city, new job. No blood. Just... quiet.”
I glance at him, then back out the window.
“Quiet isn’t clean.”
He whistles low. “That’s why you scare me, man. You say deep shit like that like you mean it.”
I can see why a man like Ghost would want a new life.
The man spent ten long years in prison, lodging appeal after appeal against facing the death penalty.
While still in prison, he helped us annihilate Altin Qadri, an Albanian rival who thought it would be fun to kidnap our women.
In return, we faked Ghost’s death and helped him escape.
He got a new face. He got a new lease on life.
I guess he’s happy he’s out, but that fear of being found out, of even coming close to incarceration again - hell, it must mess with his head.
Even for a suspected serial killer such as himself.
Mayor Bishop’s estate backs onto the water—it’s on a private road where he leads a private life. Yet everything about it screams corruption.
I take out my Glock, check the suppressor. Smooth. Clean .
This isn’t about rage. Rage gets you killed. Rage makes you sloppy.
It’s all about getting the job done. In. Out. Nice and easy.
As we pull onto the gravel road, Ghost slows the SUV, kills the lights.
“You want me to come in?” he asks.
“No.”
He shrugs. “I don’t mind if you want me to.”
“He’s one man. I’m sure I can manage without you holding my hand.”
He smirks and starts to say something before I shoot him a look that stops him in his tracks.
Ghost is by no means a pushover; he does not scare easy and I know he doesn’t give a fuck about my brilliant side-eye.
But I guess he must feel the tension radiating off me, because he clamps his mouth shut and says nothing more.
I step out into the dark. The rain has settled into a drizzle that settles into my bones, warning of things to come.
By the time the sun rises, Mayor Bishop will be gone. And I’ll be one step closer to whatever the fuck this life is trying to make of me.
Single white male. Late forties. One daughter off at college. Turns out, the man likes to be alone . He appreciates the kind of solitude men with too much power think they’ve earned.
It’s late, so the help is gone. That’s what the intel said. No drivers. No kitchen staff. No housekeeper humming in the laundry room. They all leave daily before Mayor Bishop gets home from work.
I’m not wearing gloves. Just black. Hoodie. Jeans. Tactical boots. Clothes that disappear into shadows. Clothes I won’t be wearing for long.
The house is exactly as obnoxious as I figured it would be. Three stories of white stone and wealth, with windows so polished I can see my own shadow in the glass. It’s all for show—just like Bishop. Perfect on the outside, rotten underneath.
The security system is simple—too simple for someone with the sort of enemies he has. I clip the wires behind the fuse box outside and slip through the side gate like I’ve done this a hundred times before. Because I have, but for different reasons.
I skip the kitchen door—it’s too close to the back hallway, too exposed. The cameras are fixed on the garage, but not the guest bathroom window. I clocked that flaw in the satellite images. A blind spot no one ever bothered to fix. Which is how I make my way in.
I slide the window open with a plastic wedge and cut the screen clean. One knee over the sill, then the next. Quiet. No sound but the distant hum of the storm still hanging in the brooding night sky.
Inside, everything is soft and expensive. The carpet is thick and plush under my boots. The kind of quiet money buys. It reminds me of that scene from The Godfather . Not the wedding. The horse.
I smirk. This city ’ s going to wake up to something worse than a decapitated stallion.
I move through the house like I’ve been here before. Every step practiced. Every breath controlled. Up the stairs. Slow. Left at the landing. Down the hallway.
My footsteps ghost against the carpet. I’ve had years to master this kind of silence.
I stop at the last door at the end of the hallway. I reach for the handle and pause, listening carefully. There’s no sound coming from inside. A faint light glows beneath the door. I ease it open, slow and careful—it gives the softest creak. The light’s coming from the ensuite.
The room is massive. All cool grays and chrome, like a hotel suite in your own home. There’s a floor-to-ceiling window behind the bed. Heavy blackout curtains pulled tight. A faint ticking sound—maybe the clock on his nightstand.
Mayor Simon Bishop is in bed, laying on his stomach, blankets kicked low. His breathing is deep and even. Peaceful. This is going to be easier than I thought.
I step closer, raise the Glock. Silencer screwed on tight. It’s almost surgical. One arm straight. Elbow locked. My aim steady.
I stare at the back of his head. Blond hair. Soft gray at the edges.
There are no guards and no cameras. Just a man who thinks justice won’t find him in his own bed.
For a second—one minute second—something flickers behind my ribs. A twitch. A spark of something that might be guilt. But I snuff it out fast. Because I remember the girls. The ones no one talks about. The ones who never got to wake up in a warm bed again.
And I pull the trigger.
One shot. Then another. Then two more for good measure. Blood spatters the pillows, the headboard, the curtains covering the glass wall. It’s quiet. But the smell hits quick—metallic and final.
His body gives a short jerk then settles on the mattress, unmoving; he never even saw it coming.
I lower the gun. Exhale once. Quiet. Focused. The hardest part is over.
I turn toward the door—and stop.
There’s a girl in the doorway. Young. Barefoot.
Wearing nothing but a threadbare T-shirt that hangs too big on her frame, skimming the tops of her thighs like she forgot—or didn’t care—to put anything else on.
Her hair’s a tangled mess, dark strands clinging to her face like she tore herself out of sleep. But she’s not asleep now. She’s awake. Wide awake. Eyes blown wide with an icy cold reserve. Like her soul already left the building and left her behind to watch the aftermath.
There’s a gun in her hand. She’s holding it like it’s a remote. Limp at her side. Slack fingers. No tension in her body. Just stillness.
She sees the man on the bed. She sees the blood. She sees me. And yet… she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t back up. Doesn’t even flinch when I raise my weapon and point it straight at her head.
My finger curls around the trigger.
Her eyes don’t flicker. She just stares. Straight down the barrel, like it’s nothing more than a mirror. Like she’s not just ready to die—she’s inviting it. Welcoming it. Like she’s daring me.
Do it. End this.
I’ve seen death before. Delivered it, more times than I can count. But this? This is different.
She’s not pleading or bargaining for her life. She’s not shaking with adrenaline or panic as she should be. She looks at me like she’s already seen how this ends and she’s just waiting for me to catch up.
And fuck me—my hand wavers. For the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do. Because how the hell do you kill someone who already looks like they’ve been dead for years?