Ochieng's pulse quickened as figures materialized from the darkness. They moved with eerie silence, trained assassins who had been waiting for this exact moment. The Ghost had laid the perfect trap.
From his vantage point, Rolex cursed under his breath. "Boss, we need an exit. Fast."
Gideon's voice crackled over the comms. "We're surrounded. South side blocked. North has snipers. This isn't just a setup—it's an execution."
Ochieng's eyes flicked to Vincent Laurent, who stood smugly amidst the chaos, arms crossed, as if watching a carefully orchestrated performance.
"We should have met under better circumstances, Ochieng," Vincent said, his voice smooth like silk. "But then again, when does fate ever favor men like us?"
Ochieng didn't reply. He was already calculating, searching for the weak point in the noose tightening around them.
Then—movement.
A blur of motion to his left—Seline, dropping from her vantage point, twin blades flashing in the dim light. She hit the ground running, slicing through the first wave of attackers like a phantom.
"GO!" she shouted. "I'LL COVER!"
Ochieng didn't hesitate. He signaled Rolex and Gideon. "Push west. Linet, suppressing fire—NOW."
Linet, hidden among the cargo crates, unleashed hell. The crack of gunfire shattered the night as she took down enemy snipers with ruthless precision.
Vincent's smirk never faded. "Ah, the desperate struggle of a man who doesn't realize he's already lost."
He raised a hand, and from the far end of the dock, the true nightmare arrived.
A single figure. Dressed in an all-black tactical suit. No insignia. No sound. Just a presence that made the air itself feel heavier.
The Ghost.
"Impossible," Rolex muttered. "No one has ever seen him."
Yet there he was. And in his gloved hand, he held something that made Ochieng's stomach drop—a silver locket, identical to the one Jayden had once carried.
Ochieng's mind reeled. What did this mean? How was The Ghost connected to Jayden's past?
No time to process. The Ghost moved.
And when he moved, it was inhuman.
A flicker, a whisper of motion—then one of Ochieng's men collapsed, a precise blade lodged in his throat. Before the body hit the ground, The Ghost was already upon another, disarming, breaking, killing.
Seline, still fighting her way toward Ochieng, saw the slaughter and went pale. "That's not a man. That's a demon."
Ochieng had two choices: fight or flee.
The odds were impossible. And yet—he was Ochieng.
And impossible was just another challenge.