#9

Number Nine pressed his ear to the door.

Six men.

Boots scuffing against the floor. The sharp clicks of weapons being checked. They weren't panicked. They weren't running. They knew he had heard them and were waiting for him to make a move.

Molly had been shot when she tried to escape. She hadn't stayed down. Hadn't given up. The second she saw them, she panicked. And for that, they shot her.

That was a mistake.

His jaw tightened—not in anger. Anger was useless. It clouded judgment. This was something else. A quiet, precise calculation. He wasn't rattled. He never was.

But something gnawed at him, a suspicion taking root the moment he recognized the cadence of their movements. These weren't just hired guns. This wasn't a random hit. This was planned. Coordinated. Someone had been waiting for him.

Luka.

That fucking rat.

Of all the people who could've sold him out, Luka made the most sense. Number Nine had built his fair share of enemies over the years, but Luka? He was a survivor—a snake slithering between allegiances, selling information to the highest bidder. The thought of Luka betraying him wasn't surprising. It was expected.

And that meant one thing.

They couldn't risk me coming back.

They moved fast. Too fast. Whoever put this together had deep pockets and an even deeper fear of what would happen if he was back in the game. Number Nine almost chuckled.

Impressive.

But something still didn't add up.

There weren't just six men.

No.

The six outside were the first wave. The expendable ones. They were meant to draw his attention, force him into a reaction. But the real players? The ones waiting in the shadows? They were still out there.

This wasn't just a hit.

It was an execution.

His eyes narrowed, listening. The air carried more than just the weight of an ambush—it carried patience. Someone out there was watching. Tracking his every move. They had been waiting for him to come out of retirement. And the moment he did, they moved.

Too clean. Too well-organized.

A soft laugh escaped his lips, low and dark.

Luka really thought this would be enough.

He shook his head. It was almost flattering, the speed at which they tried to erase him. Almost.

A smile crept onto his lips.

Let's see who's really hunting who.