Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Syndicate
Downstairs, heavy, rhythmic footsteps began to ascend the wooden stairs of the interior service landing. One set of boots. No, two. Moving with calculated, silent precision.
Alara grabbed a heavy iron skillet from the stove, her knuckles turning white. "How? How did they track you here? You didn't use a phone, you didn't leave a trail—"
"The burner phone in my pocket," Jack interrupted, his eyes locked on the wooden door of the apartment. "It had a passive ping tracker integrated into the motherboard. I thought I cracked the housing, but they must have had a secondary override." He looked back at Alara, his icy blue eyes fierce and completely devoid of panic. "Get into the bedroom. Lock the door. If anyone comes through that frame, you take the babies out the fire escape window into the alley."
"I'm not leaving you to bleed out against that door!" Alara hissed, stepping forward with the skillet raised.
"Do it, Alara! That's an order!" Jack snarled, his voice dropping into a lethal, commanding register that brooked no argument.
Before Alara could retort, a heavy fist pounded twice against the exterior apartment door. Not a knock—a demand.
"Jack," a smooth, cultured voice drifted through the wood, echoing into the quiet room. "I know you're in there, old friend. And I know you're carrying precious cargo. Open the door, and make this easy on both of us. We don't want to damage the merchandise."
Jack’s face twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom. He stepped sideways, placing his broad frame directly between the door and the bedroom alcove where the twins slept.
"Vance," Jack whispered, the name dripping with poison.
"Who's Vance?" Alara mouthed, her chest heaving.
"A dead man," Jack replied softly.
Suddenly, a drill bit screamed through the center of the wooden door, sending a spray of fine golden sawdust across the linoleum. The heavy brass deadbolt began to rattle as the lock mechanism was systematically chewed apart from the outside.
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Jack didn't wait for them to finish. He raised his handgun, leveled it dead-center at the spinning drill bit, and squeezed the trigger three times.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
