The first bullet tore through the front window not with a crack, but a phut, followed by the roar of splintering glass. It was a suppressed round, professional. It buried itself in the plaster wall exactly where Karl's head had been a half-second before.
He was already moving, a dive that took him behind the thick, solid oak of his kitchen island. The calm, ordered space became a shooting gallery. Two more phut-phut sounds, and his ceramic mug exploded, showering the counter with coffee and green shrapnel. His uneaten breakfast was blasted off its plate.
They came in fast and low, two through the shattered front window, three through the door they'd just kicked off its hinges. Five men. Black tactical gear, no insignia, moving with the brutal efficiency of a SWAT team. They fanned out, clearing the corners of the living room with silent, gloved hand signals.
Karl didn't panic. The cold focus that had settled over him when he saw the phone now hardened into a diamond edge. He was on the defensive, cornered in his own kitchen. His mind became a map: twelve feet to the knife block. Six feet to the cast-iron skillet, still greasy from his egg. Useless. The pistol was in the bedroom drawer. A lifetime away.
One of the men rounded the island, weapon up. Karl didn't fight the gun. He moved inside its arc. His left hand slapped the barrel upward as he pivoted, his right arm snaking around the man's neck from behind. A sharp, vicious twist. A sound like a green branch snapping. The man went limp. Karl took the submachine gun—a compact H&K UMP—as the body sagged, using it as a shield.
The kitchen erupted. Crack-crack-crack! Uns suppressed fire now, deafening in the enclosed space. Bullets thudded into the dead man's vest. Karl let the body fall, bringing the UMP up. Short, controlled burst. Three rounds. The closest attacker jerked and spun backward, crashing into the stove.
Karl was already moving again, dropping into a crouch behind the island as return fire chewed the granite countertop, sending chips of stone flying. He was breathing steady, his heart a controlled drumbeat in his chest. Two down.
A grenade rolled into the kitchen. Not fragmentation. Flashbang. Instinct took over.He squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth, and covered his ears.
WHUMP. The world dissolved into blinding white and a sound so immense it was a physical pressure. His equilibrium screamed. Disoriented, he fought through the ringing in his skull. He couldn't see, couldn't hear. But he could feel the vibration in the floor.
A shape loomed through the blinding haze. Karl didn't aim. He pointed the UMP at the vibrations and emptied the rest of the magazine in a deafening roar. The shape crumpled. Three.
The flashbang's effects began to recede, sight and sound returning in a nauseating wave. Two left. One was reloading by the doorway. The other was charging him, a knife in his hand—a tactical tanto blade.
Karl met the charge. He parried the knife thrust with the hot barrel of the empty UMP, the metal shrieking. He drove his forehead into the bridge of the man's nose. There was a wet crunch. As the man staggered, blinded and screaming, Karl grabbed the wrist holding the knife, forced it down, and then up, plunging the man's own blade deep under his tactical vest and into his diaphragm. A gurgle. Four.
The last man by the door finished reloading, bringing his weapon up. Karl was already moving. He yanked the knife free from the fourth man's body and in one fluid motion, launched it underhand. It wasn't a killing throw. It was a distraction. The blade spun through the air, striking the gunman in the shoulder of his firing arm. He flinched, his aim wavering for a microsecond.
That was all Karl needed. He closed the distance in three long strides, grabbing the man's helmet and slamming his face into the doorjamb. Once. Twice. The third time, the man went limp. Karl took his primary weapon, a SIG MCX, and put a single, quiet round through his temple. Five.
Silence.
The only sound was the drip of water from a bullet-punctured pipe under the sink and the ragged pull of his own breath. The air was thick with the smell of cordite, blood, and spilled coffee. His kitchen was a ruin of shattered glass, splintered wood, and broken men.
He stood amidst the carnage, the SIG held ready, his body thrumming with adrenaline, his senses screaming. It was done. For now.
Then, from the pocket of the first man he'd killed, a phone chirped. Not a ring. A single, polite notification tone.
Karl walked over, his boots crunching on the debris. He knelt, retrieved the phone. It was identical to the one he'd melted in his sink. The screen was lit.
Another message. From the same unknown number.
Contract Update: KARL "THE GHOST" VORLENDER. Status: ACTIVE. Value: 1,000,000. Authorization: NIGHTINGALE. P.S.: Impressive.
He stared at the screen, his blood running cold. They weren't just trying to kill him. They were grading him. The price had doubled. A million dollars on his head.
He dropped the phone and crushed it under his heel. He had to move. Now. They knew where he was. They knew he was still dangerous.
The Ghost looked around at the tomb of his quiet life, then turned and walked out the door without a backward glance. The hunt was well and truly on.