Chapter 182 Michael Strikes
The buzz-cut man was halfway up the basement stairs, muttering something under his breath, when Scarface's sharp voice cut through the dim air.
"Hold it."
Buzz-cut froze, one foot on the next step. Scarface's eyes narrowed. "We agreed on forty minutes. It's barely been twenty. That's a hell of a gap." He gestured toward the corner. "Grab a weapon and check upstairs. If anything's off, I want to know before it bites us."
Without argument, Buzz-cut reached into a dusty crate and pulled out a compact submachine gun. He moved like a shadow, every step careful, every breath measured.
The upstairs bar was silent, the kind of silence that presses against your ears. The place was dark, chairs overturned, bottles untouched. No movement. No voices.
Even the steel shutter on the front entrance was pulled down tight.
A flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Had he imagined the noise earlier?
Still, caution kept him moving. He headed for the door, intent on checking outside.
He never made it.
A muffled pop—suppressed, close—snapped through the air. Pain exploded in his right elbow, a white-hot spike that made his fingers betray him. The gun clattered to the floor before he could even cry out.
Arms like iron clamped around his neck from behind. A hand smothered his mouth, cutting off sound and air in one brutal move.
From the shadows, seven or eight men in black suits surged forward. One scooped up the fallen weapon. The rest formed a tight line behind a tall figure in a black trench coat.
Buzz-cut's eyes widened. The man stepped into the faint spill of light, and the air around him seemed to tighten. His presence was cold, predatory, the kind that made every instinct scream at you to look away.
Michael.
The barrel of a pistol pressed against Buzz-cut's forehead. The metal was cold enough to bite.
"Where are you keeping her?" Michael's voice was low, dangerous—a voice that didn't ask questions so much as demand compliance.
His gaze was a blade, sharp enough to cut through lies. Buzz-cut tried to twist free, but the man holding him was built like a wall, muscles locked solid. The pressure on his throat made him feel like his windpipe was about to snap.
He couldn't even breathe wrong.
Michael tilted his head slightly, signaling his men. The grip on Buzz-cut's mouth loosened just enough for him to speak.
"Who… who are—"
The rest of the sentence died in his throat as Michael shifted the gun to his left elbow. Another suppressed shot. Pain ripped through him, veins standing out as he fought the urge to scream. The hand over his mouth smothered the sound.
"I'll ask again," Michael said, his tone unchanged. "How many of you are there? And where is my grandmother?"
"I—"
The word barely left his lips before Michael lowered the gun and fired into his left leg. Then his right.
Buzz-cut's knees buckled, agony flooding his senses. He was barely aware of the barrel moving again—this time aimed at the one place he feared losing most.
"Third time. Think carefully before you answer."
Michael's patience was a thin thread, fraying fast. Three shots in less than a minute made that clear.
Buzz-cut believed him. Every nerve screamed that if he got this wrong, the next shot would make him wish for death.
"Three… three of us," he stammered, pale and shaking. "Including me. The other two and the old lady are in the basement."
She was here.
Michael's men exchanged quick glances, a spark of urgency in their eyes.
"How do we get there?" the man restraining Buzz-cut demanded.
Buzz-cut lifted his trembling, bloodied arm and pointed toward the far wall.
The answer was enough. A sharp chop to the side of his neck dropped him unconscious. Rope bound his wrists and ankles, a strip of duct tape silencing him for good.
Weapons in hand, the team moved fast toward the basement.
Gunfire erupted within minutes—short bursts, the thud of bodies hitting concrete, the scrape of boots in close combat. The fight was fast, brutal.
Five minutes later, silence returned. A man came up the stairs, breathing hard. "Two hostiles down. Your grandmother's in one of the rooms."
Michael didn't wait. He descended quickly, stepping past the unconscious, bloodied forms of Scarface and Buzz-cut. Their wounds were messy but not fatal.
The basement smelled of damp cement and old rust. A single door stood ajar.
He pushed it open.
His grandmother lay curled on the bare floor, a thin layer of dry weeds beneath her. Her breathing was slow, her face slack with sleep.
Michael's hands clenched until his knuckles ached. Four days. They had kept her here for four damn days.
Beside her, scattered pills—sleeping medication. No wonder she hadn't stirred during the chaos.
The surge of rage was sharp, violent. He forced it down, kneeling to lift her gently into his arms.
Back in the hallway, one of his men approached with a phone. "Boss. Scarface's phone. You need to see this."
On the screen, a single text message: [Car will arrive in five minutes. Be ready.]
Five minutes.
If they'd been any later, she would have been gone.
"Intercept the car," Michael ordered, his voice cutting like ice. "Bring everyone on it to the plane. All devices go to me."
"Yes, boss."
Twenty minutes later, aboard the private jet.
The engines hadn't even started when four men—bloodied, tied together—were dumped in a row before him. Four phones lay on the table. One buzzed repeatedly, the caller stubborn.
Michael's gaze flicked to one man. His clothes were soaked, shivering from the bucket of ice water just dumped over his head.
The gun pressed against his temple made him go still.
"Your employer's calling," Michael said, voice flat. "Say the wrong thing, and you'll be splattered on the wall. Clear?"
"Clear… clear!" The man's voice shook. "I'm just a smuggler. I don't know anything. I'll do whatever you say—just don't kill me."
Michael nodded toward the phone. The call was put on speaker, the device held close to the man's mouth.
A voice came through—sharp, impatient. Michael knew it instantly. His uncle. Years since he'd heard it, and the tone hadn't changed.
"Why the hell did you take so long to answer? Are they with you? You should have reported the moment you had them."
"They… they're here," the smuggler said, glancing at Michael like a man walking a tightrope over fire. "Boss, don't worry. Once we reach the dock, I'll put them straight onto the Celestria ferry. No mistakes."