El Paso — 3 Years Ago
Jack stood at the edge of a hill, watching the villa in the distance — a sprawling estate tucked behind iron gates and mesquite trees. Tile roof. Pool lit up like a resort. Guards moved like shadows between stone pillars.
Gantz stepped up behind him.
"Ready, Jack?"
"No. But I'll do it."
"Why not ready?"
Jack kept his eyes on the warehouse.
"Two years ago, revenge drove me. I infiltrated that dock with one goal — kill. Right now? No matter how bad these people are… I can't find a reason to break in and kill them."
Gantz was quiet for a moment. Then:
"You killed four men the night you were taken. Two brutally. Two clean."
"Self-defense," Jack said. "Same with that assassin at the precinct. My survival depended on it. This doesn't."
"Don't let emotion steer the mission," Gantz replied. "But — I do have good news."
He pointed toward the warehouse.
"That building's a hub for another human trafficking ring run by some mid-level cartel named Mendoza. All I want is intel. Get in, collect their data, dump it onto this"—he held out a USB stick—"and check for an asset. If she's alive, extract her. That's your objective."
Jack took the drive, eyes narrowing.
"And if there are others inside?"
"That's your call," Gantz said. "Save them if you want. Just don't compromise the mission."
"So… I'm an anti-hero now?"
"That's up to you. If you're good enough, you can finish the job without killing anyone."
Jack didn't reply. He just reached down, grabbed his backpack, and turned toward the Javelin.
"Hold up," Gantz called out.
He gestured to a man in a black suit standing by an Escalade.
The man moved to the trunk, opened it, and pulled something from a foam case. He walked up and handed it to Jack.
An MK18. Suppressed. Optics clean. Sling already mounted.
Jack took it. Tested the weight.
"Heavy."
Gantz smirked.
"When God gives you lemons…"
Jack nodded once.
"Got it."
Gantz added;
"By the way for this mission you go by: STRAY"
He turned, climbed into the Javelin, and drove off into the night — toward the villa.
Some moments later, he parked east of the property. Grabbed the rifle. Stepped out.
A massive concrete wall loomed ahead, shielding the estate from prying eyes. Jack moved toward it — slow, careful. He knelt. Reached into his pack.
Pulled out a grappling hook. Manual. Ugly. Just rope and steel.
He muttered, "Please just hook it," then spun it once and threw.
Clink.
A clean catch. It held.
Jack tugged twice to test the anchor, then climbed up — scaling the wall with practiced motion. Once at the top, he flipped the rope over and descended into the estate.
He was in.
Jack pulled the earpiece from his pocket and slid it into his ear.
Gantz came through instantly.
"Finally. I was starting to miss your voice."
"I wasn't. How many men inside?"
"Fifteen, maybe twenty. The intel you need is in the big boss's bedroom — Mendoza. You might find our asset there too."
Jack glanced up.
"Which room?"
"Balcony with the candles. Dead center. You'll see it."
"Alright. Over and out."
He raised his rifle. Stayed low. Moved toward the pool.
Two men blocked the path inside. Jack grabbed an empty beer bottle off a table nearby and threw it across to the far end of the pool.
Shatter.
The men turned instantly, SMGs raised toward the sound.
Jack moved.
Two clean shots — suppressed, fast.
Both dropped into the water.
He didn't stop. Slipped inside the house while the ripples in the pool were still spreading.
Voices echoed from deeper in the villa. Laughter. Music. A loud house.
"Good," Jack muttered. "They won't hear much."
He made his way to the staircase and climbed — avoiding contact with the others on the lower floor.
But as he reached the top, a man stepped out from a room.
They locked eyes.
The man's mouth opened to scream—
Jack struck fast. Rifle stock slammed into the jaw — bone cracked.
The man staggered. Jack grabbed his knife, stepped in, and stabbed him in the throat. Quick. Deep. Clean.
"Fuck," Jack whispered.
He dragged the body into the nearest room — a guest bedroom — and laid it behind the bed.
Then moved.
Toward Mendoza's room.
Screams drifted up from the lower floors. From rooms nearby. Begging. Crying. The kind of sound that etched into bone.
Jack tightened his jaw. Kept walking. Forced his heart to close.
Gantz crackled in his ear.
"Thermal reading — large group down the hall. Headed your way."
Jack didn't hesitate. Slipped into a side room and held position. Waited.
Footsteps passed outside. Muffled chatter. Then quiet again.
As he turned to leave, something caught his eye.
A woman. Lying on the bed.
Tied to the frame.
Makeup streaked down her face, mixing with tears. Clothes torn. Handprints on her neck. Her skin bluish. Eyes still open.
Choked to death.
Jack stood still. Hand covering his mouth.
"Animals," he muttered.
Gantz responded.
"They are."
"You can see this?"
"Thermal silhouettes. Don't need color to understand what you're looking at."
"She was a person."
"She was," Gantz said flatly.
Jack's voice dropped.
"I'll continue."
Then Gantz's voice shifted:
"Bad news. Two trucks just pulled up. Mendoza's back. Looks like reinforcements."
"Fuck. I'll move faster."
"I'm sending backup."
Jack slipped out and moved toward the far end of the hallway. Found the large double doors — Mendoza's bedroom.
He entered fast. Cleared the corners. Empty.
No laptop in sight.
He started searching — desk drawers, shelves, under the bed — frantic but thorough.
Then — the bathroom door creaked.
A woman lunged at him, screaming — jagged glass in her hand.
Jack caught her wrist mid-swing, twisted hard, disarmed her without cutting either of them.
He recognized her.
The woman in the photo.
"The asset," he whispered. "Stop — I'm here for you."
She froze. Breathing hard.
Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out the photo, and held it up.
"This is you, right?"
Her eyes flicked between the photo and his face.
"How are you planning to get me out?" she asked.
"I'll handle that. Right now — does Mendoza have a laptop? Any data storage?"
"In the safe," she said, catching her breath. "Laptop. Why?"
"Don't worry about it."
She turned. Walked to a painting, grabbed the frame, and dropped it to the floor.
Behind it — a wall safe.
"Before you ask," she said, "I don't know the combination."
Jack stared at the wall safe.
Digital safe. Old-gen model. No biometric, just a keypad and a recessed key port.
He clicked his earpiece.
"Gantz. I found the safe."
Gantz answered instantly.
"Bottom right. Beneath the keypad — there's a diagnostic port. See it?"
Jack ran his finger along the underside.
"Yeah. Got it."
"Good. Pull out the USB I gave you."
Jack pulled out the unmarked black stick from his pocket.
Gantz continued:
"Flip the switch. Cable extends. Plug it in."
Jack did. A small wire unfolded from the side with a faint mechanical click. He slid the cable into the port.
Gantz spoke again — cool and precise.
"It'll emulate service firmware. Cycle through the combo cache until it lands on the right one. Might take ten seconds. Maybe twenty. Don't touch anything while it runs."
The USB blinked — red, then amber.
Jack waited.
The woman behind him shifted, anxious.
"Relax," he muttered. "If this works, we're gone in two."
The light on the USB blinked blue.
Click.
Safe unlocked.
Jack pulled the door open.
Inside: a matte black laptop, an external drive wrapped in cloth, and a folder sealed with a wax-stamped band.
He scooped them all into his pack.
"Stick's in. Do your thing."
Jack put the laptop and external drive in his bag, USB stick already inserted. He zipped the bag shut and stood.
The woman looked stunned.
"How'd you do that?"
He looked at her.
"Friends in low places."
Then he checked his rifle, flipped the safety off, and moved for the door.
Jack asked,
"Your name?"
"Lucia. Lucia Marin."
"Lucia — now, I've already given you the good news: I'm here to get you out. Bad news is this place is filled with men, and more just arrived with Mendoza. So we lay low, move fast, move silent. You stay behind me at all times. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Good. Let's go."
Jack opened the door slowly and peeked at the hall he came from. It was clear. He slipped out. Lucia followed tight.
He moved in the opposite direction — slow steps toward another stairway.
Then — sound. Chatter. Footsteps coming toward them from below. No time to move past it.
Jack readied his rifle.
Three men appeared.
Jack dropped two instantly — close range.
The third went for his pistol — too slow. Jack shot him twice in the chest. He stumbled back, tumbling down the stairs with a loud thud.
The impact echoed through the villa.
Shouts rose from below — men yelling, trying to understand what happened.
Jack didn't wait. He grabbed Lucia and moved fast, heading for the balcony up front. She followed close.
He looked down — it overlooked the front yard. There were guards outside, but the balcony was dark enough to descend unnoticed.
Jack turned to Lucia.
"You see that metal pipe? Can you use that to get down?"
"I can try."
"Do it. I'll cover you."
He aimed his rifle at the stairway while Lucia climbed onto the pipe and began her descent.
A man entered Jack's sightline. Jack crouched to keep the muzzle flash hidden from the yard.
The man walked in slowly. Another followed. They didn't notice Jack in the shadows.
Then a third man entered — spotted the open balcony door.
Jack dropped him instantly.
Suppressor hissed.
The others heard it. Close range.
Jack opened fire — dropped one. The last dove behind cover.
"Fuck," Jack thought. "Now they know. I gotta move — fast."
The man yelled in Spanish. Lower floors erupted with noise.
Jack dropped the rifle — the sling caught it across his chest. He checked Lucia — she was almost at the yard.
He jumped to the pipe. Slid down fast. Lucia moved out of the way.
Jack landed, said,
"Let's go."
Jack and Lucia moved low across the garden — shadow to shadow — toward the rear of the villa.
Then a soft voice cut through the dark.
"Stray. You never call. You never write."
Jack froze. Pivoted with rifle raised—
A man leaned casually against a column near the trellis, chewing gum.
Black hoodie, cargo pants. Beard shadowed by moonlight. A suppressed SMG slung lazily at his hip. No stress in his bones.
Whisper.
"Gantz told me you might need backup. Said something about you being a magnet for bad decisions."
Jack lowered his rifle slightly.
"You Whisper?"
"Depends. You planning on shooting me?"
"No."
"Then yeah. That's me."
Lucia peeked from behind Jack. "Friend of yours?"
Jack exhaled. "Something like that."
Whisper stepped forward. "You the package?" he asked Lucia, tone light. "You look like hell."
"Thanks," she said dryly.
Whisper nodded to Jack. "Back gate's hot. Front's crawling. We'll cut through the garden tool shed, hug the hedges to the east wall—"
CRACK.
Lucia's head snapped back.
Blood mist sprayed the roses.
She dropped. No scream. No stagger. Just gone.
Jack didn't move at first.
Didn't blink.
Then the weight hit.
Like a pipe across the chest.
She was dead. Just like that. Just like Olivia. Clean headshot.
Same angle. Same silence.
Whisper ducked instantly, dragging Jack behind a planter.
"Sniper. Rooftop. North side. Move!"
But Jack didn't move.
His breath caught.
His ears rang.
His sight tremble.
Everything slowed.
Blue washed over his vision. His mind buckled.
Whisper shoved him.
"Stray! Snap out of it! She's gone! We're not!"
Jack blinked. Looked down at her corpse.
Then his pupils narrowed.
He stood. Checked his rifle. Half-empty. Flicked it to fire.
Didn't say a word.
He moved toward the villa doors like a man possessed.
Whisper spat, "Shit. Of course," and followed, low and fast.
They crossed the lawn — hugging the wall. Jack pushed the doors open, rifle raised.
Two guards by the hallway turned.
Jack fired twice — center mass. Both dropped.
Click.
Empty.
Jack dropped the mag, let the rifle hang by its sling. Reached for his Glock.
Whisper cleared right, dropped another man running from a side hall.
They reached a body near the kitchen — one of the guards he'd shot earlier. An old CAR-15 rifle lay near his hand.
Jack dropped to a knee, grabbed it. Checked the mag — 5.56. Mostly full.
He swapped it for the empty MK18, slung the CAR-15, racked it once.
"Ugly bitch," he muttered. "Hope it fires straight."
They pressed forward.
Footsteps above. Loud voices. Panic.
Whisper pointed up. "Stairs. They're rallying."
Jack moved first — fast, not reckless. He didn't want a fight.
He wanted a slaughter.
They reached the second floor — just as two men turned a corner with SMGs.
Jack dropped both before they got a round off.
More shouting. One man ran from a hallway — Jack clipped him in the hip.
He collapsed screaming.
Whisper walked past and silenced him with a single shot.
They were in now. Fully committed.
Jack moved door to door — clearing each room with brutal precision.
One room held two men arguing over gear. Jack tossed in a flashbang from a corpse's belt.
It wasn't pretty. Just effective.
They screamed. He entered. Finished them.
A shotgun blast ripped through a nearby wall. Whisper ducked, barked, "Left side!"
Jack dropped, rolled, and came up shooting.
Pellets missed him — shredded a frame behind.
His return fire caught the shooter in the jaw.
Another man appeared behind him — close — too close.
Jack dropped the rifle. Drew his knife.
Spun.
The blade slid up under the man's chin — in and out.
He pushed the body away and reclaimed his rifle.
Breathe. Reset. Keep moving.
"Back hall," Whisper said. "Stairs to the roof."
"Sniper," Jack muttered. "Still up there."
They hit the stairwell hard — two men guarding the door.
One raised a pistol. Jack shot first.
The other lunged with a machete.
Whisper met him mid-step — cracked the man's knee sideways with a kick, then slammed his head into the concrete wall. Skull split.
They reached the rooftop door. Locked.
Whisper cursed, checked a downed body — no keys.
Jack backed up, ran forward, and shoulder-slammed the door.
It cracked.
He hit it again. Harder.
The bolt snapped. The door creaked open.
They entered the roof under open stars.
The sniper was still there — scoped in the wrong direction.
Whisper didn't wait.
One clean shot. Back of the skull. Done.
Jack walked over. Picked up the man's rifle — a bolt-action .308. Expensive. Custom.
He looked through the scope, scanned the grounds. All clear.
Whisper approached.
"We've cleared most of them."
Jack's eyes were cold.
"Not all."
They went back down — methodical.
Finished every last guard they could find.
By the time they reached the living room, the carpet looked soaked in wine.
Bodies everywhere. Blood mist in the air. It stung the nose.
"Mendoza," Jack muttered.
Whisper said;
"Fuck him, it's over."
"There are still people trapped somewhere. We cleared the whole house we can say hello to the owner too."
Jack grabbed a pistol on the ground, colt. Checked the mag, half full just enough. Made his way to upper floors where he had to escape sliding down a metal pipe. He knew where he was going. He reached the door of Mendoza's room.
Gantz spoke;
"You can't, he is protected. His partners will go after you and you can forget laying low after that."
"I already killed all his men, he will go after me if his partners won't."
Whisper opened the door, both ready. Gunshot scraped the door and hit the drywall behind. They took cover by the wall. Whisper grabbed a smoke grenade from his belt and toss it in. Room filled with smoke men inside started coughing and yelling. Jack put his pistol on his waist, whisper dropped his rifle. They both took out their knives and entered.
Whisper moved fast and silent. Found one man with shotgun trying to pin them down. One fast slice to his throat. Men fell down tried to aim his shotgun but Jack didn't let him. Then other approached from the smoke, Jack spun the blade in one fast motion, man dodged back to aim. Whisper yelled;
"Duck."
Threw his knife, it stuck into the man's eye then made its way to the brain. He died.
Smoke cleared.
Whisper spoke with condescending tone;
"Mendozaaaaa, where are you? We are here for the sleepover. I brought snacks and Stray brought drinks."
Jack pointed at the bathroom door. Whisper nodded.
They flanked it — one left, one right. Jack reached out, tapped the handle.
Locked.
Jack pulled back.
Whisper whispered, "Your show, cowboy."
Jack raised his boot and kicked hard — right at the hinge.
CRACK.
The door burst inward, wood splintering. They rushed in fast — blades still drawn.
Mendoza stood inside — towel wrapped around his waist, one hand raised, the other clutching a small pistol.
He fired once — the shot missed wide.
Jack closed the distance, smashed the gun from Mendoza's hand with the butt of his knife. The weapon clattered into the sink.
Whisper grabbed him by the throat, slammed him against the tiled wall.
Mendoza gasped, clawing at his grip. "I–I have connections—! You don't know who you're—!"
Jack stepped forward. Calm. Cold.
He pressed the knife lightly to Mendoza's cheek. Whisper held him in place like a steel vice.
"You ran a house full of slaves," Jack said.
Mendoza spat blood onto Jack's boot and said;
"So are you some kind of hero, puta."
Jack didn't flinch.
He raised the knife — but Whisper grabbed his wrist.
"Let me," Whisper said.
Jack hesitated — then nodded.
Whisper smiled faintly. Turned back.
"Say goodnight, boss."
THUNK.
One clean stab — under the jaw, straight through the roof of the mouth.
Mendoza gurgled once. Then dropped.
Silence.
They stood still for a moment, staring down at the corpse.
Then Whisper broke it.
"Remind me never to piss you off again."
Jack wiped the blade on a nearby towel. "You killed him."
"You opened the door."
Jack turned away.
"Let's find the women then torch the place."
"I know where they are but I'm not sure if you are ready to see that."
"What do you mean?"
"Women, men… kids."
"Fuck… Can you handle it?"
"I'll take care of it."
Detroit - Present Day
Jack reached the bar. It was clean again. Gantz had cleaned it.
Lena was sitting on the counter. When she saw him, she jumped down and ran toward him.
"Jack!"
She hugged him — tightly. Jack winced.
"It kinda hurts. Can you give me some space?"
"Sorry."
Hyun-woo and Sang-hoon stood from their chairs, walking toward him. MJ was sleeping in the back booth.
Hyun-woo spoke:
"You're alive?"
Jack replied as he walked toward a bar stool:
"Barely."
He pulled off his hoodie and retrieved the mini med kit from inside his vest. Lena said:
"Let me. I stitched Sang-hoon up more times than I can count."
Jack nodded and let her.
Then he spoke to Hyun-woo:
"Monday. Or his group. You heard of them?"
Hyun-woo's face turned serious. Sang-hoon replied:
"Trained assassins. Unknown origins. They'll take any job — as long as it pays."
"Cliché enough. Anything else?"
"Monday's the most dangerous. The others… not so much."
"Yeah, I agree. Except Wednesday. She was tough. Right until the end."
"Until the end? So it was the Monday group?"
"Yeah. All dead. Except Monday. I count six. If what you're saying is true, Monday never entered the building. He's still out there."
"I've heard about you," Hyun-woo said. "Stray. The massacre in El Paso… and another slaughter at the Port of Brownsville. You were a myth — until you commented on that Board post."
"I was trying to stay a ghost. Looks like I failed."
Lena finished stitching Jack up and cleaned the wound. He flinched at the sting of alcohol.
Then he continued:
"So… what's the move now?"
Hyun-woo replied:
"Korea. The second we set foot on home soil — we're safe."
"Why not just go to the Korean embassy? I'm sure your boss had friends in high places."
"That would buy us time. But not safety. Lena still needs a plane out — embassy or not."
"Yeah, I hear you. That's where it could go bad. What about the Board notice? Can we close it — maybe buy it off?"
"No. Once it's on the Board, it stays. That's the 'equality' it guarantees."
"Damn. Alright, looks like we're hitching a ride to Korea. I'll make some calls. See if I can find a smuggler."
Jack stood up.
"I don't have the kind of money you guys have. That kid — MJ — and his sister? They'll be in danger for a long time. That's on me. I need to make sure they're safe. Out of Detroit. Somewhere secure. With enough money to survive a few months."
Lena spoke:
"I'll help with that."
Sang-hoon nodded.
Jack said:
"Thank you. I'll go get Renee. There's a panic room in the back — hide there if anyone comes sniffing around, but I doubt it'll be a problem."
He opened the duffel bag, pulled out the Glock 17 and MCX rifle.
Then noticed the fake ID tucked into a sleeve.
He asked:
"What about fake IDs, different plane tickets, disguises?"
Hyun-woo cut him short:
"Facial recognition. And they'll be watching the airports. Too risky."
Jack nodded.
"Damn. Alright — I'm off. Take the rifle and the Glock. There's extra mags and ammo inside."
He pulled his hoodie back on, and pocketed the burner phone and ID.
Outside, he dialed.
Gantz picked up instantly.
"Looking for a cruise?"
Jack didn't even roll his eyes.
"I'm not even gonna ask how you know. So — you know someplace I can book a Korea tour?"
Gantz exhaled on the other end of the burner.
"You want Korea? It won't be a straight line."
Jack stayed quiet. Just listened.
"You'll need to get the group out of Detroit first. Quietly. No highways. You drive down to El Paso. Near Fabens. My contact will be waiting — low profile, no questions asked. Don't get pulled over. Don't stop for gas in the wrong towns."
Jack leaned against a wall, watching a stray cat paw through trash on the sidewalk.
Gantz continued.
"They'll take you across the border into Juárez. Coyotes. Cartel-linked. I will pay ahead — they won't touch you or the girl. You'll spend the night in a safehouse — dirty, loud, forgettable. Then comes the convoy south."
"Convoy?"
"Trucks. Semi-legal. You'll ride down through Mexico, Guatemala, into Panama. Once there, a private charter out of Colón — old cargo plane. No manifests. Flies under the radar. Doesn't go to Korea direct."
"Where?"
"Philippines. Pampanga airstrip. From there, the last jump is handled by a Korean fixer. Ferry or plane — depending on weather. He'll get you to Busan. You'll be safe once your boots hit that soil."
Jack rubbed his temples.
"That's weeks."
"Ten days, if nothing goes sideways."
"What's the weak point?"
"Crossing into Juárez and takeoff out of Panama. If they trace the move, it'll be there."
Jack nodded to himself.
"And the girl?"
"She'll be safe. As long as you make her look poor and keep her head down."
Jack's grip tightened around the burner.
"And what about the boy?"
"Too much baggage. Either you take them to El Paso and risk everything… or you leave them behind and keep them hidden."
Jack didn't answer. Just stared at the cracked pavement.
Gantz spoke again, lower.
"You want this to work? Then start moving. Now."
Jack replied, calm but firm.
"Money's not the issue. Just give me an account number and an estimate. Lena will cover MJ and his sister — travel, housing, everything. I only want you to keep an eye on them for a while. Somewhere far from Detroit."
"Fine."
"Thanks. But why the sudden generosity?"
"I told you, Jack. You have a debt to pay — and in thirteen days, you're enlisting. It's too late to pull you out now. I'm just making sure my asset survives."
"I get it. Where do I meet your contact in El Paso?"
"Call me when you get there."
Click.
Jack tossed the phone in the passenger seat, climbed into the Javelin, and drove. Headed straight for Renee's workplace.
Later, at the Diner
The place was old, chrome-trimmed — neon sign flickering in the window. Jack pushed through the glass door and walked straight to the counter. Slid into the corner stool.
A woman in her fifties approached — hair in a tight bun, name tag half-faded.
"Evenin', hun. You look like hell. Coffee?"
"Thanks, but I'm looking for Renee. Is she on shift?"
"She's on break. You a friend?"
"Yeah. Jack. Could you let her know I'm here? It's important."
The woman gave a small nod and headed into the back.
Moments later, Renee stepped out — wiping her hands on a towel, eyes sharp.
"What are you doing here?"
Jack stood. Quiet.
"Things got messy. Change quick. We're leaving."
Before she could reply, a voice floated in from a nearby booth. Low. Casual.
"Oh no, Jack. She can leave. But you? You're staying."
Jack turned, hand already hovering near his waistband. Glock waiting.
A man sat with a half-empty mug of coffee, trench coat slung behind him, grin sharp and easy.
"Relax," he said, waving a lazy hand. "Not the place for that."
Jack narrowed his eyes. "Monday, I presume?"
The man scoffed. "Hell no. Fuck Monday. And fuck his other calendar freaks too."
Jack tilted his head. "Not here for a collab, then?"
"Nope. Just me. But damn — Stray, in the flesh. Sharp, just like the stories say."
Jack's voice cooled. "The girl's gone. You're wasting your time."
The grin disappeared. The man stood slowly.
"I know you know where she is. The price just went up, Jack — fifteen million. That's not a hit anymore. That's a life-changer."
Jack's tone never wavered.
"Yeah. Can't blame you. But I can't help you either."
They locked eyes. Silence stretched. Heat built.
Renee stood frozen. The air turned electric.
Then Jack said:
"You can walk. One chance."
The man cracked his neck.
"Funny. I was about to say the same."
Jack stood, hand still resting at his waist, and spoke to Renee without looking at her.
"Take everyone outside. Quietly and fast. Wait by the car."
Renee didn't ask questions. The place was nearly empty anyway. She moved.
Jack turned his attention back to the man.
"Mind telling me the name of the guy I'm about to kill?"
"Slate."
Jack looked him over. African American. 6'2". Ex-military posture. Bomber jacket. Calm like he'd done this before.
Jack thought: That jacket's too short for a waist draw. Inside holster, maybe?
No time to guess. Jack pulled his Glock — fast, no aiming — fired from the waist.
Slate dodged with inhuman speed. Spun. Closed the distance.
Jack barely jumped back, just missing a grab. Tried to raise the Glock again, but Slate was already there.
He deflected the barrel — shot went high, punched into the ceiling.
Slate grabbed Jack's wrist. Jack kicked at his knee — nothing. Slate didn't even flinch. Solid. Dense.
Slate twisted. Jack dropped the Glock voluntarily and caught it with his left hand — but Slate was faster. A rising kick knocked the pistol out of reach.
Jack thought: Grappler. Maybe other styles too. But mostly grappling. Shit — he's already got me.
Jack twisted his waist and launched a high left kick — explosive. Slate blocked, but late.
Jack twisted again — freed his right wrist, grabbed Slate's arm, yanked him forward, and headbutted him hard.
Slate's grip loosened. Jack tore his hand free, sucking air through his teeth.
But Slate didn't fall back. He surged forward, locked Jack in a bear-clinch, and drove him into the wall.
The breath ripped from Jack's chest.
Slate was stronger. Denser.
Jack didn't fight it. He shifted his weight, turned his hips, hooked a leg.
Slate lost balance — Jack swept him hard.
They hit the floor in a mess of limbs. Slate landed on top.
Jack didn't panic.
He snapped his legs around Slate's waist — pulled guard.
Slate dropped a punch. Wild. Heavy. Jack twisted — the fist cracked into tile.
Jack overhooked the arm, broke Slate's posture, shifted to high guard.
Slate tried to sit back, to reset.
Jack popped his legs off, shoved his chest, scrambled to his knees.
Slate pivoted, went for Jack's back.
Jack reversed. Dove for a single leg. Hooked behind the knee. Drove through.
Dumped Slate hard to the floor.
Now Jack was on top.
Slate reached to grab — Jack slid to side control. Trapped the arm under his knee.
Control. Breathe. Focus.
Slate bucked, thrashed. Jack let him roll slightly — bait.
Then snaked his arm under the neck.
Rear naked choke.
Slate panicked. Elbows flailing.
Jack locked the hooks in. Forearm under the chin. Tight squeeze.
Slate tried to roll. Bridge. Fight.
Too late.
Jack whispered, low and cold:
"You're not the only one who knows how to grapple."
Slate pounded the floor. Slower. Then still.
Jack held the choke a second longer.
Then released.
Slate's body went limp — unconscious, not dead.
Jack stood.
Chest rising and falling. Blood on his knuckles. Split lip. Bruised ribs.
Still standing.
He looked down at the man.
"Fifteen million, huh."
Then Jack turned, retrieved his Glock from under the booth, and walked out.
His eyes locked with Renee.
"Don't worry, he's alive. Get in the car."
Then he turned to the older woman behind the counter.
"Ma'am, call the cops for him."
They both got in the car and drove off.
On the way, Renee finally spoke.
"What the fuck is happening?"
Jack exhaled.
"They're after the girl. It's my fault. Everything. I'm sorry. I've got some friends — they're going to take you and MJ somewhere far. Safe. With enough cash to hold you over for a few months."
"What?"
"I'm saying sorry. You're going to have to leave your life in Detroit behind. At least for a while. I'll be gone too — out of the city. You won't see me again."
Renee didn't respond.
They reached the bar.
Inside, everything had been cleaned up again. Gantz was sitting on a stool, sipping bourbon with Sang-hoon and Hyun-woo. Lena was leaning over a booth, talking with MJ. A couple of men in black suits stood nearby, watching the room.
Jack approached Gantz.
"Everything ready?"
Gantz turned, raising an eyebrow.
"Trouble again?"
"Yeah. Handled."
"Alright. I'll take the kid and the woman — get them where we discussed. And by the way, your Javelin's probably marked after today. I brought you something more discreet. Reliable. Enough room for your big happy family of three Koreans and a White American."
"Appreciate it."
Jack walked over to MJ.
"Hey."
"You look like shit."
"I've been hearing that a lot today."
MJ narrowed his eyes. "So… what's up? You look like you're about to spit some bullshit."
"I am." Jack sighed. "Listen — things got worse. People are after Lena, and they're not going to stop. I have to get her out of the States. That means I'll be gone for a long time. Maybe longer than you'd expect."
He pointed toward Gantz.
"You see that smug old bastard over there? He's gonna take you and Renee somewhere safe. Far. I'm sorry you've got to leave your friends, your school, your life here."
MJ blinked.
"So I have to leave Detroit? Why?"
"My fault. I brought this mess to your door. While I'm overseas, I need to make sure you and Renee are out of the blast zone. Detroit's too hot right now."
MJ looked down, then shrugged.
"Man, fuck Detroit anyway. You coming back?"
Jack glanced at Renee, who exhaled and gave a soft shrug — permission, maybe.
Jack nodded.
"I will. Someday. I'll find you guys again. Might take a few years."
"Damn."
"You gonna be okay, MJ?"
"I think so. Are you?"
Jack smirked.
"I hope."
They shook hands.
Jack walked back toward the Koreans.
"You guys ready for a globe-spanning road trip?"
They nodded.
Meanwhile, Lena walked up to MJ.
"Hey, MJ."
"Hi. Finally going home, huh?"
"Yeah, hopefully. You gonna be okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah…"
Before she could finish, Jack yelled from across the room:
"Just ask for her number or socials, dumbass!"
Everyone cracked a grin — except Lena and MJ, who went bright red.
MJ scratched the back of his neck.
"So, uh… can I?"
Lena chuckled.
"Sure. I don't have a phone anymore, but follow me on…"
Back to Jack and Renee:
"Renee, I'm sorry."
"I know, Jack. Just go."
"Take care of MJ — like you always do."
"Will do."
Jack turned back to Lena.
"Alright. Pack it up. You two can FaceTime when we land in Korea."
The Korean crew stood and headed for the exit.
Jack nodded once to Gantz.
That bond — whatever it was — would never fully break.
One of the suited men gestured for them to follow. They did.
Man led them to a black Honda CR-V, pulled out the key and an envelope with some cash in it. Handed it to Jack.
They entered the car. Jack spoke:
"Ready?"
And drove off.
End of Chapter IIII: Stray