Chapter 15: Hope Flickers

It was raining. Hard. The kind of storm that swallowed the city whole.

Suzanne stepped into her apartment, drenched to the bone. She didn't bother changing—just walked straight to the counter, poured herself a drink, and leaned back, trying to steady her breath. The drive was safe. Jack had it. And for the first time in a long time, she believed that maybe—just maybe—peace and justice were within reach.

Thunder cracked across the sky like a warning shot.

She turned toward the window—and froze.

There he was.

Sitting in the corner, half-shrouded in shadow, the lightning briefly illuminating the sharp, menacing profile of the man who haunted every agency, every operation.

Cyrus.

Her glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the floor.

She couldn't move. Sweat began to bead down her forehead. Her heartbeat raced.

Cyrus rose slowly from the chair, his presence like a storm inside the room—cold, violent, unstoppable.

His voice, low at first, then building with venom:

"People don't dare cross me… because they know what happens when they do."

He took a step closer.

"But you…"

Another step. His face inches from hers now, eyes burning with fury.

"You little prick!" he exploded. "You dared. And now, I'll show you what hell looks like."

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate—until he was right in front of her. Without warning, Cyrus grabbed Suzanne by the throat, lifting her slightly off the ground as her hands clawed at his arm.

His grip tightened.

He leaned in, his whisper colder than the rain still hammering the windows.

"You really thought I wasn't watching?" he hissed. "You thought I'd just let Jack walk away with the truth? That I'd let this world slip from my grasp?"

She gasped, her legs flailing, vision blurring.

"I don't let things happen, Suzanne," Cyrus snarled. "I make them happen."

He clenched harder. Her eyes widened, then slowly rolled back.

Moments later, her body went limp.

Hope... flickered out.

He released her, letting her fall like a shattered promise. The room echoed with the dull, final thud of her body hitting the floor.

Cyrus knelt beside her, his expression devoid of mercy.

"I'll kill Mayors," he said, almost like a vow. "No matter what. And no one—no one—will stop me."

Cyrus stepped out of the house, the rain drenching his coat, but he didn't flinch. The storm seemed to follow him, as if the world itself was mourning what had just happened—or warning what was to come.

He pulled out his phone, dialled a secure line, and spoke with icy calm.

"Bring the asset from Guantanamo Bay."

A pause.

"Jack Mayors' blood is the price. And he's waited long enough."

He ended the call without another word.

Sliding into the backseat of the black armored car, he shut the door behind him. The engine roared to life, headlights piercing through the sheets of rain.

With one final glance at the house behind him, Cyrus disappeared into the downpour, driving straight into the heart of the war he was about to unleash.

Location: Guantanamo Bay

The phone rang. Again and again. The shrill sound echoed through the concrete halls of the high-security prison under the blistering Caribbean sun.

Finally, a guard answered. The voice on the other end was sharp, commanding.

"Prisoner 676."

The guard froze. His face went pale.

Without wasting another second, he sprinted down the corridor, past layers of security, past cells holding men whose names the world had forgotten. He stopped in front of a heavily fortified door.

The prisoner inside sat still, eyes closed, breathing slow. But the moment the door opened and the phone was handed over—he was awake.

"Vance here," the man said, his voice deep, calm, lethal.

The reply came swiftly. "Cyrus has summoned you. He wants a bullet in Jack Mayors' head."

There was a moment of silence. Then, a sinister smile spread across Owen Vance's face.

"Jack Mayors… I've been waiting a long time for his blood." He paused. "You know my price."

"It's been arranged. The guard will open your cell tonight. A chopper will be ready. After a nap in the air…you'll wake up in the Alps."

The call ended.

Vance stood still, the weight of the new directive settling in like an old friend.

A storm was coming.

And he was its blade.

Location: Unknown

The room was dimly lit, static humming on the old radio nearby. Tyler stood near the window, his silhouette framed by the fading light. His voice was low, heavy with conflict.

"I need to disappear…go somewhere off the grid. Somewhere even ghosts wouldn't find me."

He turned to face the screen, where Jack's image flickered faintly.

"I have to release this to the world—the files, the truth, everything. But I can't do that with a target on my head."

He hesitated, eyes filled with guilt.

"I want to stay, Jack. You know I do. But if I don't vanish now, everything we've fought for dies with me."

A beat of silence.

"This time…I need to go dark, bud." 

Jack sighed…he saw the bigger picture and said, "It's fine, I understand it, just stay safe, share me the coordinates…I'll find you but I need to complete something." 

Jack saw the news…Suzanne was dead. His last moment with her flickered through his mind…her plea for justice. He clenched his fist, his eyes burned with fire. Hope is never gone…never. 

Location: Chicago (Matthew's Apartment)

Time: 2:03 AM

The rain tapped steadily against the windows. Jack scaled the cold steel pipes, muscles aching with each pull. At last, he reached the fifth-floor balcony. Quietly, he slid the door open and stepped into the dark room.

Silence.

He moved like a ghost across the wooden floor… until—

Click.

A cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.

The lights blazed on.

"Jack Mayors…"

Matthew stood behind him, gun drawn, a smug grin stretched across his face.

"I figured you'd show up. You always were the stubborn kind. After Hong Kong… when I sold both of you out… I honestly didn't think you'd survive. But here you are."

He chuckled. "Legendary, man. I'm a fan. A real fan."

Jack didn't move.

"But really?" Matthew continued. "Sneaking into my house without me knowing? That's just insulting."

The smile dropped.

"I should call Cyrus. Let him know I've got his ghost right here. Tyler's already on borrowed time. And you…"

He smirked, "You're about to become my ticket to freedom."

Matthew pulled out his phone.

That was his mistake.

In one swift move, Jack twisted, breaking Matthew's wrist with a sickening crack. The gun dropped—Jack caught it mid-air and fired, silencer muffling the shot as the bullet buried itself in Matthew's leg.

He collapsed, screaming—but only for a second.

Jack landed a final blow, knocking him out cold.

Silence returned to the apartment, broken only by Matthew's shallow breathing and the distant hum of city sirens.

Jack stood over him, eyes burning. Never sell out the people who gave you a chance.

The room was dim, lit only by a flickering lamp hanging low from the ceiling. Shadows danced on the walls.

Matthew groaned as he regained consciousness. His hands were tied tight to the arms of a wooden chair, ankles strapped down. He struggled, the ropes digging into his skin.

A chair creaked.

Jack sat across from him, silent—eyes cold, unwavering. The silenced pistol rested calmly in his hands, like a predator waiting for the moment to strike.

"Talk," Jack said, voice flat.

Matthew spat blood from his lip. "Talk what? Let me out of this, damn it! You're dead anyway. Cyrus is going to kill you! He will kill you!!"

Jack leaned in slightly, unshaken.

"Ahh...boy, don't scream." His voice was calm, almost whisper-like, but it carried weight.

Jack stood up slowly, raising the silencer in his grip, letting the metal catch the lamp's light.

He circled Matthew, steps deliberate.

"Cyrus might kill me…" Jack paused just behind him.

Then stepped into view, staring him down.

"…but not before I kill him first."

He held Matthew's gaze. The room fell silent again, except for the hum of the city below and the thunder cracking far in the distance.

Jack's eyes were steel cold.

"So before the next bullet finds your other leg... talk. Everything."

Matthew stared at him, lips sealed, blood seeping down from his first wound. He said nothing.

Bang.

The silencer hissed as the second bullet tore through his other leg.

Matthew screamed in agony.

Jack stepped forward and clamped his hand over his mouth, eyes burning with fury.

"Speak," he whispered darkly, "or the next bullet goes through your head."

Matthew panted, trembling, sweat dripping down his forehead. Then he smirked through the pain.

"Shoot me…" he said, voice hoarse, "…death is better than betrayal. You, of all people, should know that, Jack."

Jack didn't flinch.

He gripped the fresh wound tightly—Matthew let out a violent cry, convulsing in the chair.

"STOP!!!" he screamed.

A beat. He gasped for breath, trembling.

"I'll tell… I'll tell…"

Jack stepped back, watching.

Matthew swallowed, pain in every breath.

Jack's grip tightened on the gun, the cold metal of the silencer a sharp contrast to the heat rising in his chest. He took a step back as Matthew's words echoed in his mind.

"Cyrus… he doesn't work for the devil, he is the devil. The world hurt him, now it's his turn to hurt. You can't stop rage… can you, Jack?"

Jack's jaw clenched, his pulse pounding in his ears. His mind raced.

"What is 'the strike'?" he demanded, his voice low and deadly.

Matthew smirked, his eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction.

"I don't know about any strike. The only strike I know is the one called on your pal, Rake. Vance is back from the cold. He's ordered to kill you. The first step to that… is Rake."

Jack froze, his blood turning to ice. Rake. Rake. The betrayal, the loss, the fire that had been stoked inside him.

Matthew's cruel laugh filled the room—sharp, eerie, like the cackle of some dark force. Tyler. Vance. His mind was a battlefield, torn between the past and the deadly present.

Without a second thought, Jack turned. His gun was steady, aimed at Matthew's head. The laughter died in an instant.

Bang.

The sound of the shot was like a final punctuation to the sentence of Matthew's life. His body went limp, slumping forward in the chair, eyes empty, soul long gone.

Jack stood motionless for a moment, his breath coming in shallow gasps, as if the weight of Matthew's words had knocked the wind out of him. He knew the clock was ticking—time was running out. Vance was back. Rake was in danger. He had to move, and fast.

The gun was already in his hand as he rushed to the door, every nerve on edge. His heart hammered as the storm of his thoughts swirled—Cyrus, Vance, the strike. All of it. The pieces were coming together, but it felt like a trap closing in around him.

He needed answers. And he wasn't stopping until he got them.