The Mongoose was short, wiry, with a scar across his cheek.
“Victor Miller. Address, photo, routine.” Sterling handed over a folder. “Make it look like an accident. Or a mugging gone wrong.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand. Half now, half when it’s done.”
The Mongoose nodded, took the folder, and vanished like a shadow.
On May 26th, Vic was walking home from the hospital. 11:00 PM, the streets were empty, the lamps flickering. He took a shortcut through the park.
The trees rustled, smelling of damp earth. A shot rang out—a muffled pop, the whistle of a bullet inches from his ear. Vic instantly dove into the bushes, rolling across the grass.
A second shot hit the spot where he’d been a second before. A pro, suppressed rifle. Vic crawled toward the trees, his mind working with terrifying clarity.
Where was he? To the left, fifty yards out, on the roof of the old park pavilion. Vic broke into a run, zig-zagging between the trunks.
He burst out of the park, ducked into an alley, and pressed against the wall, breathing hard. The adrenaline was surging. It had been a long time since someone shot at him.
He remembered the feeling: a mix of survival instinct and cold rage. He pulled his knife. He circled back toward the pavilion through the shadows. The fence was low; he cleared it in one motion.
The roof was low, the access ladder rusty. He climbed it in total silence. A silhouette was visible on the roof.
The Mongoose, thinking his target had fled, was already packing his rifle into a case. Vic lunged forward. The hitman turned, but it was too late.
A short, precise strike neutralized the shooter. The Mongoose gasped, realizing he’d lost. He slumped onto the roof, his strength fading. Vic delivered a final blow to ensure the threat was gone for good.
He quickly searched the body: ID, cash, a phone. The last outgoing call was still on the screen. Vic memorized the number.
Then he carefully wiped his knife. He took the rifle—high-end optics, a beautiful piece of hardware. He climbed down and vanished into the alleys.
He disassembled the rifle on the way and dropped the pieces into the river. The phone followed. He got home as the sun was rising. His mother was asleep.
Vic washed up and changed his clothes. His hands were shaking slightly from the tension. So, Sterling had decided to play dirty. He’d hired a pro. It hadn’t worked.
Now the CEO knew: Vic wasn’t going to stop, he wasn’t going to run, and he wasn’t going to hide. The war was out in the open. Vic pulled out Ellie’s notebook and opened it to the last page.
There was one name left—Oliver Sterling. The leader. The one who started it all.
Vic circled the name. Soon, it would be his turn. But it wouldn’t be quick.
Vic had a special ending planned for Oliver. Every second of his punishment would be worth every tear Ellie had shed.
He lay down and closed his eyes. He fell asleep instantly, with no regrets. Revenge knows no mercy; it only knows justice.
Oliver Sterling felt safe. His father had doubled the security: two bodyguards around the clock, an armored SUV, cameras all over the estate. But the primal fear remained.
At night, Oliver woke up in a cold sweat, seeing an old man with dead eyes in his dreams. On June 1st, Oliver left the Sterling Chemicals office at 7:00 PM. The bodyguards walked him to the blacked-out SUV.
They got in. The driver, a guard in the front, Oliver in the back. they drove through the industrial zone.
At a red light near an abandoned warehouse, the driver slowed down. Oliver was looking out the window, lost in thought. Suddenly, the driver slumped over the wheel with a groan.
The guard turned around, but the window on his side shattered. Before he could even draw his weapon, a precise shot from a crossbow took him out. The door on Oliver’s side was ripped open.
Vic was standing there. In his hands was a homemade weapon, a coil of rope over his shoulder. Oliver tried to scream, but a heavy blow sent him into darkness.
He woke up to cold and pain. His hands were tied behind his back, his legs lashed to a heavy chair. He opened his eyes.
They were in an abandoned factory. The walls were peeling, the windows were broken, the floor was concrete. In the corner, Vic stood smoking, looking right through him.
“You’re awake,” Vic said flatly.
Oliver struggled.
“Who are you? Do you know who my father is?!”
“I know. The CEO. A big man.” Vic crushed his cigarette and walked over. “And I’m Elena Miller’s father. The girl you broke.”
Oliver turned pale. Memories flashed back: the night, the drinks, the video, the blackmail. A game, a lark, one of many.
“Listen, man, it was a misunderstanding. She wanted it. We were just having fun.”
Vic delivered a short, hard strike.
“Don’t lie. I read her journal. I know how you drugged her, how you filmed her, how you threatened her. You broke her, month after month.”
Oliver whimpered.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to. It was Ryan’s idea. Tony filmed it. I just…”
