When the boss woke up in the dead of night, sleep became a luxury his staff could no longer afford. Franco immediately summoned his assistants for a briefing on recent operations and instructed Amelia to prepare a legal assault on Robin and Dan. He made brief, tense video calls to Isabel and Fiona and fielded dozens of calls from business partners eager to congratulate him on his “miraculous” recovery.
Police were now deployed around the perimeter of the mansion. Inside the hospital, Franco’s security was airtight: two guards stayed with Isabel at the house, while six guarded his wing. Two—Jimmy and a man named Well—were inside the room, while four more stood watch in the hallway. Everything was secured. Everything was under control. Franco sat in his bed like a spider in a web, waiting for the killer to fly into it.
Trevor and Spion were stationed in the room next door. Franco had originally tried to dismiss them, noting they weren’t exactly “fighters,” but they insisted on staying.
“Never mind,” Franco had laughed, a rasping, hollow sound. “You can stay as witnesses in case I actually get killed. Ha… ha… ha.” He turned to the doctor checking his vitals. “Get them a room. And tell your colleagues to stay in their offices tonight. I don’t want any innocent bystanders when the killer arrives. I’m actually getting a bit bored. Ha… ha…” The laugh dissolved into a fit of wet coughing.
The doctor frowned, tapping notes into his tablet. “Well, everything looks stable. If you survive the night, you can be discharged tomorrow.”
“See? The gods are on my side,” Franco smiled thinly.
“How do you think the killer will get in?” Trevor asked. “Can they teleport directly into this room?”
“No, the teleportation hound requires a familiar destination,” Franco explained calmly. “If I were him, I’d use two hellhounds: one to find me and spy, and the other to return and relay the coordinates to the one capable of teleporting. However, since the news has already been broadcast that I’m in this hospital, finding my room isn’t exactly a challenge. He’ll likely just come directly for me.”
“Did you see his face when he shot you?” Spion asked.
“No. I was too shocked by seeing the hellhounds. I was fumbling for the Tinderbox when the bullets hit. All I remember is a long black coat, gray trousers, and black Chelsea boots. That’s the last thing I saw before the world went black.”
“We’ll be next door,” Trevor said, waving his phone. “If we hear anything, we’re recording.”
“Be careful, you two,” Franco muttered. “And… thank you.”
It surprised them both to hear a note of genuine gratitude in his voice. Whether he meant it or was just being polite didn’t change the facts: Franco was a criminal. While a bullet from a killer might be the fate he deserved, keeping him alive to face a jury was the only way to achieve true justice.
The suite next door offered the same high-end amenities as Franco’s, elegant and luxurious, with a bed that looked far too comfortable for the night ahead. But there was no time for rest. The moment they stepped inside and closed the door, they dialed into a group call with the rest of the team.
“Those files are the smoking gun,” Lady News said over the phone. “They’re more than just leverage; they’re evidence. We can use them to expose every disgusting thing they did at that club, and likely much more.”
“We have to tell Senator Style,” Report Man suggested. “But we need to provide proof of the crimes in those files first, so he can flag it for the higher-ups. We need law enforcement to seize those files.”
“And what about tonight?” Spion asked, his voice dropping to a casual, dark tone. “Do we stop the killer… or help him?”
“Franco deserves to spend the rest of his life in a cell,” Lady News said firmly. “Killing him now would just be letting him get off easy.”
“Exactly,” Trevor whispered, avoiding being overheard from outside. “If the killer is Patric Andersen, we need to convince him to work with us. We get the files, and we send Franco, and everyone else involved, to prison for life.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Lady News agreed.
“And how exactly do we pull that off?” Spion asked.
“I’ll talk to Alisa,” Trevor answered.
“We’ll wait for your update,” Lady News said.
“Make it happen,” Report Man added.
They ended the call. Spion moved to the door, pressing his ear against the wood to listen for any movement in the hallway. Trevor didn’t waste a second; he immediately dialed Alisa.
“Hey, Trevor,” Alisa’s voice was playful, despite the hour. “Going to sleep. Did you want a midnight chat? Or something… better?”
Spion couldn’t help but smile when he heard that.
“Alisa, listen. Is Patric’s full name Patric Andersen?” Trevor asked.
The line went dead silent. After a long pause, her voice returned, cold and serious. “So you found out. Trevor, you shouldn’t have gotten involved in this.”
“Alisa, is he going after Franco again? You have to tell him to stop. Franco has files—photos he took at that club. We can use that evidence to send him and everyone else involved to prison. Killing him is too easy, Alisa. We have the chance to prove exactly what he and those monsters did to those minors. We can put them all to jail for what they did.”
Another pause, then Alisa asked, “Are you at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll try to talk to him.” She hung up.
Minutes later, a man dressed as a doctor pushed a covered medical cart toward Franco’s room.
“Stop,” a guard commanded. “Mr. Franco is sleeping. A doctor already did his rounds. What are you doing here?”
“Just a final regular check, then I’m off shift,” the man said through his surgical mask.
“Your shoes,” another guard said, stepping closer. He looked down at the black Chelsea boots. His hand moved toward his holster. “Where are your shoe covers?”
“Forgot them,” the man said.
In one fluid motion, he pulled a suppressed pistol from the cart and shot the guard nearby. He shoved the heavy cart into the other three, knocking them off balance, and systematically fired. Within seconds, the four hallway guards were down.
The muffled thuds and the thwip-thwip of the suppressed shots alerted Trevor and Spion. They pressed against the wall, hearts racing.
Inside Franco’s room, the door creaked. Well fired a blind shot into the hall but hit nothing. Jimmy leaned against the wall beside the door frame, gun raised, breathing in shallow gasps. Franco sat up in bed, his face a mask of pure terror.
Outside, the distant wail of police sirens began to rise.
“You can’t escape! Surrender!” Franco shouted from the bed. “Tell me who hired you! I’ll pay you ten times their price to kill them instead!”
Silence followed. Well stepped toward the doorway, trying to get a visual. The moment his head cleared the frame, a single bullet found his temple. He slumped to the floor.
A metal medical tray was suddenly flung into the room. Jimmy reacted instinctively, firing two shots at the flying object. It was a decoy. The killer now knew exactly where Jimmy was hiding.
Jimmy was trembling. He knew if he stayed behind the wall, he had the advantage, but Franco was panicking. The old man scrambled out of bed, trying to reach the bathroom for cover, but doing so put him directly in the line of sight of the open door.
“Mr. Franco, get back!” Jimmy screamed. He lunged into the doorway to provide cover fire.
He never got a shot off. A bullet caught him in the chest, followed instantly by another to the head. Jimmy fell, the carpet soaking up his blood.
Franco collapsed to the floor, shaking so hard he couldn’t stand, the smell of urine filling the air. He buried his head in his hands, waiting for the end. He heard the sirens getting louder, then the sound of footsteps approaching him.
Then, a vibrating phone. And a voice.
“Please… don’t kill him. It’s not worth it.” It was Trevor.
The killer spun around, his pistol leveled directly at Trevor’s chest. Spion stood just beside Trevor, his hands raised but his eyes steady. “Check your phone,” Spion said quietly. “Someone is trying to reach you.”
The killer hesitated, the gun never wavering from Trevor’s heart. He reached into his lab coat with his free hand and pulled out his phone. He saw the missed calls from Alisa and the text message: Don’t kill Franco. Trevor and his team can send him to jail. Work with them.
The killer looked at the pathetic, trembling man on the floor. He tucked the phone away. From his pocket, he pulled out a fire steel and a piece of flint. With a sharp strike, sparks showered the air.
Out of the shadows, a gray hellhound—no larger than a small calf—materialized.
“Take me away,” the killer whispered.
In a blur of gray smoke, the man and the beast vanished in the air.