Chapter 8 - The Ghost in the Cabin
Victor stood squarely in the center of the dark living room, his pistol raised, safety clicked off with a sharp, metallic snap.
“Victor Hayes,” a voice called out from the darkness outside the front door. It sounded distorted, carried through a tactical speaker—cold, metallic, and devoid of any human emotion. “Your time on the ledger has expired.”
CRASH!
The front door didn't just open; it exploded inward, flying off its heavy iron hinges in a shower of splinters and iron bolts. A smoke grenade rolled across the wooden floorboards, hissing violently and filling the room with thick, blinding white smoke.
“Don't move!” Victor roared into the haze.
Pop-pop-pop!
Silenced gunshots chewed through the cabin walls. Victor fired back into the smoke, muzzle flashes illuminating the room in strobing, violent bursts of light.
I pressed myself flat against the stonework of the fireplace, coughing as the acrid smoke burned my throat. Through the haze, I saw a dark, tactical silhouette step through the shattered doorway with terrifying speed.
It was the Executioner.
He wore matte-black body armor, a featureless tactical mask covering his face, and carried an automatic carbine with laser precision.
Victor pivoted to fire, but a burst of rounds caught him directly in his injured right shoulder, sending him staggering backward against the bookshelf. Books rained down around him as he crashed to the floor, his pistol slipping from his bleeding hand and sliding across the wood.
“Victor!” I screamed, forgetting his orders completely as I bolted out from behind the hearth.
The Executioner froze, turning his masked head slowly toward me. He raised his carbine barrel directly in my direction.
“Emily, no—!” Victor roared from the floor, lunging forward with desperate, superhuman strength.
Before the Executioner could pull the trigger, Victor slammed his entire body weight into the mercenary’s legs, taking him down in a violent crash that shattered the wooden coffee table into a thousand pieces.
The carbine flew across the room, clattering into the dark corner.
What followed was a brutal, silent struggle in the shadows. Stripped of their guns, the two men traded heavy, bone-crunching blows. The Executioner was younger, faster, but Victor fought with the raw, untamed fury of a cornered wolf protecting his pack.
With a final, guttural roar, Victor drove his elbow upward into the mercenary’s jaw. The Executioner went completely limp, slumping unconscious onto the floor.
Heavy, ragged breathing filled the smoky cabin.
I scrambled across the floor, dropping to my knees beside Victor. Blood was pouring rapidly from his shoulder, soaking through his shirt once again.
“Victor... oh god, you’re bleeding badly,” I sobbed, pressing my hands against the wound to stem the flow.
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Victor winced, his dark eyes looking up at me through the smoke with a fierce, burning tenderness. He raised a bloodstained hand and gently cupped my cheek.
“I told you...” Victor whispered, his voice dangerously weak. “Nobody... touches you.”
