Chapter 3

Meanwhile, on the top floor of Willis Tower in the Gold Coast area.

Victor's office occupied the entire floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of Chicago's dazzling nightscape. Suddenly, his computer beeped.

High-risk target identification requires manual confirmation.

Victor put down his glass and opened the page. A security camera screenshot appeared on the screen—a man wearing glasses stood in front of a convenience store; the image was blurry, but his features were clear. The system noted the facial recognition similarity score: 78%. The matched person was identified as Marcus Reed, with the note "KIA—died three years ago."

Victor's hands began to tremble.

He zoomed in on the picture, staring intently at the bearded face. The contours, the build, even that habitual stance—a slight forward lean, weight on the left foot, right hand hanging naturally at the waist. It was a posture ingrained from long-term gun training, one that couldn't be changed.

“Impossible,” he muttered to himself, whiskey spilling onto his suit. “Marcus should have died three years ago.”

Victor stared at the screen for a full five minutes. Finally, he picked up the encrypted phone and dialed a number.

"Kyle".

"Sir."

"Find someone for me. The owner of the convenience store on 7th Street in Chicago's South Side. Find out his name, his background, everything."

"Yes, sir."

Victor paused, his voice turning icy: "Send a probe team. If he's just a trained fighter, break his legs as per the bounty. But if he is..." He didn't finish his sentence.

"Understood, sir. Results will be available tonight."

Victor hung up the phone and stared at the photo on the screen again. He touched the medal on his chest, got up, walked to the safe, and entered the combination. The safe opened, revealing a Desert Eagle, its barrel plated in gold. A line of small characters was engraved on the side of the gun: For the God of War.

Outside the window, a light rain began to fall from the Chicago night sky.

12:40 a.m.

In the convenience store warehouse, I finally received Ethan's second message.

My phone screen lit up, revealing a string of ordered code—the agreed-upon emergency meeting code, set three years ago but never used. I deciphered it digit by digit, referring to my memory of the codebook: abandoned apartment, 2 AM, emergency.

The cipher ended with a brief warning: The hunter smells blood.

I deleted the text message and closed my phone. He knew I was being watched. He might have been exposed himself too. But he still sent a signal to meet in person, indicating he had something he needed to give me in person.

I turned off the last light in the store and opened the waterproof box behind the shelf. A Glock 19, two spare magazines, a roll of cash, and fake identification. I holstered the gun in my waist holster, stuffed the cash into the inside pocket of my jacket, and pulled up the hood.

At one o'clock in the morning, I locked the door of the convenience store.

I didn't take the main road. The alleyways of Seventh Street crisscrossed, and I moved quickly along a route I had scouted three years in advance—climbing over two walls, passing through the backyard of an abandoned auto repair shop, and circling the underpass on Fifth Street. My hood was pulled low, and my hands were in my pockets, gripping the handle of my Glock. Rainwater streamed down my clothes.

At 1:15 a.m., just as I reached the intersection of Fifth Street, a black SUV silently glided into the intersection ahead, blocking my way. The engine was still running, and the windows were tinted bulletproof glass.

I slowed my pace, hunched my back, and my steps became unsteady.

The car door opened. Four men in tactical jackets got out. Pistols were bulged at their waists, and they wore Bluetooth earpieces in their right ears. They didn't close the door after getting out, maintaining a position where they could easily find cover again. Professional assassins. The men of God's Hand.

"Hey, buddy," one of them walked over, smiling friendly. "Still out so late? It's not safe."

I lowered my head, my voice slurred, "Going...home...I drank too much..."

He approached, his eyes sweeping across my face. "Which street are you from? Shall I give you a ride?"

"No...no need..."

I turned to leave. He suddenly reached out and grabbed my shoulder: "Wait, you look familiar—"

Police sirens wailed in the distance. A patrol car turned onto the street. The man released his grip, whispered a few words into his earpiece, then smiled at me: "Watch out, man." The four men got into the SUV, which slowly drove away.

I stood there, raindrops dripping down my cheeks. The first tentative step. They weren't sure yet. But a second one would come soon.

At 1:40 a.m., the abandoned apartment building came into view. It was a seven-story old building, abandoned three years ago due to a fire. The exterior walls were blackened by smoke, and most of the windows were broken. I pushed open the rusty iron gate and walked into the dark stairwell.

My phone vibrated. A text message from an unknown number read: "4th floor, west side."

Ethan's encrypted number. He's here.

I suppressed the turmoil within me and hurried upstairs. The stairwell was pitch black, with only occasional flashes of lightning filtering through the broken windows. Second floor, third floor—

The moment I stepped onto the fourth-floor stairs, a chill suddenly crept up my spine.

I lunged at the wall next to me.

Bang!

The bullet struck the spot where I had just been standing, sending concrete fragments scattering. A sniper. I rolled into the corridor, my back against the wall. Two more shots, the bullets piercing the wall and leaving two bullet holes above my head.

The voice on the walkie-talkie came from downstairs: "Target has entered the fourth floor. Alpha team, come up from the east side. Beta team, block the west exit. Snipers, take your positions and await orders."

At least ten people. I checked the magazines—full, seventeen rounds, plus two spare magazines for a total of fifty-one rounds.

I moved quickly down the corridor and rushed into the room on the west side of the fourth floor. Moonlight streamed in through the window without glass, and the silhouette of the sniper on the opposite rooftop was clearly visible, the reticle of his infrared scope flashing in the rain.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Standard tactical advance steps.

I raised my Glock, aimed at the doorway, and adjusted my breathing to a fighting rhythm. My heartbeat slowed. The old war god had taught me: a true warrior remains utterly calm in the face of death.

The footsteps outside the door stopped.

"Three, two, one—"

The moment the door was kicked open, I pulled the trigger. Three shots in quick succession. The first assassin who rushed in had three bloody holes exploded in his chest, and his body fell backward.

"Target engaged! A1 hit!"

I rolled to the other side of the cover, and bullets rained down. The walls were riddled with holes, and plaster dust flew everywhere. I counted the gunshots—five automatic rifles, two pistols. At least seven people were outside the door. Fourteen rounds left in the magazine.

"Throw a flashbang!"

I closed my eyes and shielded my face with my arm. A blinding flash and a deafening roar instantly filled the room. Three figures rushed in. Relying on my memory, I fired repeatedly towards the doorway. The moment my vision returned, two corpses lay at the doorway, and the third man clutched his shoulder as he retreated. My magazine was empty.

I quickly reloaded. Just then, another person rushed in from outside, gun already pointed at me. I didn't have time to reload and dove to the side. A bullet grazed my cheek.

It fell to the ground, the new magazine not yet fully inserted into the gun. The assassin had already adjusted the muzzle, preparing to fire a finishing shot—

Bang!

His head exploded. I didn't fire the gun.

Gunshots and screams rang out in the corridor.

"Third party encountered! Beta team requests backup! Captain shot!"

I loaded the magazine and rushed to the door. In the corridor, a hooded figure was moving rapidly. The marksmanship was extremely accurate; almost every shot was accompanied by a scream. The tactical movements were fluid—rolling, firing, and reloading, all done in one smooth motion.

The figure finished off the last assassin and staggered toward me.

I raised my gun and aimed it at the door. He pushed the door open. Our guns were pointed at each other at the same time.

A two-second standoff.

He took off his hood.