Chapter 6 - The Ghost from the Past
I stared in absolute shock as Marcus Thorne, a man I had personally buried a decade ago, stood perfectly alive in the smoky apartment.
The tactical agents swiftly disarmed Vivian, pinning the screaming woman to the floor and snapping heavy steel handcuffs onto her wrists.
Marcus calmly walked over to the bound surrogate, using a sharp pocketknife to cut the thick ropes restraining Elena.
He turned to me with a grim smile, his face weathered by years of hiding in the darkest shadows of the corporate underworld.
He explained that he had faked his own death ten years ago to secretly investigate a massive syndicate infiltrating our company.
Marcus revealed that Richard was never just a greedy husband, but a highly trained sleeper agent embedded in my life by the cartel.
The forty million dollars Richard stole was not embezzled for luxury, it was a mandatory payment to fund an international weapon smuggling ring.
Marcus had intercepted my security feed earlier today and mobilized his ghost squad to protect me from Vivian's execution squad.
I felt my entire reality shatter as I realized every single moment of my marriage had been a carefully orchestrated lie.
Marcus handed me his encrypted tablet, showing a live satellite tracking feed of Richard's private jet flying over the ocean.
He told me we only had a narrow window of three hours to intercept the plane when it stopped to refuel on a private island.
If Richard successfully delivered the stolen money to the cartel bosses, my son Ethan would become a permanent, high-value target.
I refused to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and protecting my child from international assassins.
I instructed Marcus to prepare a heavily armed pursuit jet, determined to finish this war with my own two hands.
We left Vivian to the federal authorities and rushed to a private airstrip hidden on the outskirts of the city.
I boarded the sleek black jet, strapping myself into the leather seat while Marcus briefed his elite tactical squad.
As our plane aggressively climbed into the night sky, my cell phone suddenly buzzed with a restricted video call.
I answered the call, expecting to see Richard mocking me from the safety of his airborne fortress.
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Instead, the screen showed my four-year-old son Ethan, crying frantically while sitting on a cold metal floor.
A masked man stepped into the frame, holding a large tactical knife directly against my little boy's throat.
