34. Lucas
34
LUCAS
T he moonlight filters through the cracked windows of the abandoned museum, casting long, eerie shadows across the marble floors. The place used to be one of New York’s hidden gems, a relic from another era.
I remember walking around it as a kid, marvelling at all the sights. Now, it’s just a forgotten shell, a perfect place for a meeting like this—if you trust the man you’re meeting. And I don’t trust anyone.
The air is thick with the scent of dust and decay, the silence almost oppressive as I make my way through the grand hall. My footsteps echo in the vast space, the sound bouncing off the rusting exhibits and faded signs that line the walls. I can feel the tension in the air, a prickling at the back of my neck that tells me something isn’t right.
Albrecht’s consigliere is supposed to meet me here, a neutral ground where we could talk without any unwanted eyes. But as I step deeper into the shadows, the sense of foreboding only grows stronger. My instincts are screaming at me, every fiber of my being on high alert.
Then I see it—movement in the shadows, just a flicker, but enough to confirm what I already knew. This isn’t a negotiation. It’s an ambush.
I don’t let my stride falter, don’t give any sign that I’ve seen them. Four men, moving silently through the darkness, spreading out to surround me. They think they have the advantage, think they’ve caught me off guard. They’re wrong.
I continue forward, letting them close in, every sense honed and ready. The first man makes his move, stepping out from behind a pillar, a blade glinting in the pale light. He’s fast, but I’m faster.
I grab an iron rod that’s been discarded on the ground, twisting just in time to catch him across the jaw with it. The blow is swift, precise, and he crumples to the floor without a sound.
No time to waste. The second man is already lunging at me from the side, a gun in his hand. I spin, the rod slipping from my fingers as I grab a piece of shattered marble from a fallen statue.
The weight of it feels right in my hand, and I hurl it at his head. The marble connects with a sickening thud, and he drops like a stone, the gun clattering uselessly to the ground.
Two down, two to go.
I move quickly, slipping into the shadows before the remaining attackers can figure out what happened. I’ve always been good at disappearing when I need to, at using my surroundings to my advantage.
The third man hesitates, his eyes darting around the darkened room, trying to find me. But he’s looking in the wrong place.
I strike from behind, wrapping a piece of thick, dusty fabric around his throat—one of the tattered banners that once hung proudly in this museum. He struggles, his hands clawing at the fabric, but I don’t give him a chance. I tighten the grip, pulling until he goes limp, his body slumping to the floor.
One left.
The fourth man is smarter than the others. He’s not charging in blindly, not making any sudden moves. He knows he’s alone now, knows that I’ve already taken out his team. I can see the fear in his eyes, the way his hand trembles as he grips the knife in his hand.
I step out of the shadows, letting him see me. The flicker of hope in his eyes is almost pitiful. He thinks he’s going to get a fair fight. But I’m not here to fight fair. I’m here to win.
He rushes at me, desperation fueling his attack. I sidestep him easily, grabbing an ancient, rusted chain from the floor—something that might have once held a velvet rope, now forgotten and discarded.
As he stumbles past me, I swing the chain, wrapping it around his wrist and pulling hard. The knife slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor, and I yank him back toward me, driving my fist into his gut.
He doubles over, gasping for breath, but I don’t give him time to recover. I tighten the chain around his neck, pulling him close until his face is inches from mine. “Should have brought more men,” I say.
He doesn’t get a chance to respond. I twist the chain, cutting off his air, and with one last struggle, he collapses at my feet.
The museum is silent again, the only sound my heavy breathing as I look around at the bodies scattered across the floor. The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, the cold edge of survival sharp and clear in my mind.
A phone buzzes in the pocket of one of the dead men. I bend down, pulling it out, the screen lighting up with a single name: Albrecht. My lips curl into a grim smile as I answer the call, holding the phone to my ear.
“Tell me it’s done,” he says down the line.
“Better luck next time,” I say coldly, my voice echoing through the empty hall. “You’re a fucking dead man.” Then I hang up, dropping the phone onto the body of its owner.
The fight is over, but I know this isn’t the end. Albrecht’s just getting started, and so am I. But tonight, I’ve sent a message—a message written in blood.
I step over the bodies, heading for the exit. The night air hits me as I push open the heavy doors, the weight of the fight still clinging to me. But there’s no time to dwell on it, no time to rest.
I need to get back to Emily. To feel sane again. And to work out what the hell to do next. I think back to the original plan. Could I use her as bait to bring him out into the open?