New Location: Santiago
The safe house was a third-floor walk-up above a laundromat that perpetually smelled of warm, damp lint and industrial detergent. It was a far cry from his clean, orderly kitchen, but it was temporary. Karl had spent the night not sleeping, but listening. Every creak of the old building, every distant siren, every shift of the water pipes was mapped and analyzed. The SIG MCX he'd taken from the last attacker lay on the scarred wooden table beside him, cleaned, reloaded, and within easy reach.
Dawn was a gray smear through the single, grimy window. He'd been there twelve hours. Long enough. The rules were simple: you never stay static after a contact. You move before they can reacquire.
He packed his meager go-bag: the passport, the money, the pistol, two protein bars, a bottle of water. He left the heavy rifle; it was too conspicuous for what came next. He needed to be a ghost, not a soldier. He needed to vanish into the city's morning rush.
He performed one last ritual. Standing perfectly still by the door, he closed his eyes and listened. The building was quiet. Downstairs, the laundromat was still closed, its giant machines silent. A car door slammed two streets over. A pigeon cooed on the windowsill. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Satisfied, he opened the door and stepped onto the dim landing. The stairs descended into shadow. He moved silently, his senses stretched to their limit, every step placed with deliberate care near the wall to avoid the telltale creaks in the center of the treads.
He was two steps from the bottom, his hand reaching for the reinforced steel door that led to the alley, when he heard it. A sound that didn't belong.
A soft scuff of a shoe on concrete. Not outside. Inside. From the small, dark alcove under the stairs where the trash bins were stored.
It was a perfect ambush. They hadn't been waiting outside. They'd been waiting inside, patient, knowing he'd have to come down eventually. They'd bypassed the building's front entirely.
Time seemed to fracture. The alcove door burst open. Not five men this time. Three. But these were different. They didn't move like a tactical team; they moved like predators, fluid and fast, without the bulky gear, dressed in dark, nondescript clothing.
The first came low, a blur of motion, a telescopic baton already whistling toward his knees. Karl barely had time to drop his bag and pivot. The baton grazed his thigh, a line of fire erupting through his nerves. He caught the man's arm, using his momentum to slam him into the banister with a sickening crack of wood and bone.
The second was on him before the first hit the ground. No weapon, just hands. A grappler. He locked onto Karl's arm, trying to twist it into a submission hold. Karl could smell his breath, a faint hint of mint and coffee. Karl drove his elbow backward into the man's ribs, once, twice, feeling something give. The grip loosened for a fraction of a second. Enough. Karl spun, breaking the hold, and drove the heel of his palm upward into the man's nose, shoving the cartilage into his brain. The man dropped without a sound.
The third man hadn't moved. He stood between Karl and the alley door, a calm, almost bored expression on his narrow face. In his hand, he held not a gun, but a Taser, its red aiming beam already dancing on Karl's chest.
"Don't," the man said, his voice a flat monotone. "The price is alive or dead. I get a bonus for alive."
Karl stood panting, the two bodies at his feet. The alley door was six feet away. Freedom was six feet away, blocked by a man with a weapon that could drop him in an instant.
He raised his hands slowly, a gesture of surrender. The man with the Taser allowed a thin, cold smile.
"Smart."
As his hands came level with his shoulders, Karl didn't plead or tense up. He moved. His right hand shot to the back of his belt, under his jacket, and came out with the compact 9mm. The movement was too fast, too close. The Taser crackled and two barbed probes shot out, but Karl was already dropping, the probes grazing his jacket and embedding themselves in the wall behind him.
He didn't aim. He pointed and fired twice from the hip.
Pop. Pop.
The shots were deafening in the confined space. The first round took the man in the center of his chest. The second, a microsecond later, hit him in the forehead. The bored expression never changed. He just folded backward and was still.
The silence that followed was ringing. The smell of gunpowder and blood filled the narrow hallway. Karl stood, his heart hammering against his ribs, his leg throbbing. He quickly retrieved his bag, stepping over the bodies.
He pushed open the heavy steel door to the alley. The morning light was harsh. The city was waking up. He blended into the foot traffic, a man with a duffel bag, just another worker heading out early.
Two blocks away, tucked in a doorway, he allowed himself a moment to check the dead man's phone. He knew what he would find.
Another message. Same number.
Contract Update: KARL "THE GHOST" VORLENDER. Status: ACTIVE. Value: 2,500,000. Authorization: NIGHTINGALE. P.S.: You are costing me a fortune.
Two and a half million. He deleted the message and dropped the phone down a storm drain. He didn't look back. He just kept walking, disappearing into the crowd, a ghost with a price on his head that was growing by the hour.