"I'm going to kill you for this." His breath hissed between clenched teeth, his hands curling into fists so tight his knuckles turned white.

  Jackson’s voice shook with rage, a low, controlled growl like a beast on a chain. His eyes locked on the screen in front of him — and it played again. He couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to. He needed to remember every frame, every second. The footage was grainy, but it was enough.

  His front door. Wide open. The wood splintered, hinges hanging loose. Boots stomped across the hardwood, fast and precise. The figures moved like ghosts — blacked out gear, faces masked. Two of them. His wife, Sarah, came into frame, arms out, yelling, “No, no, no, stop!” Her voice echoed off the walls.

  They didn’t stop.

  One man shoved her to the ground. She fought. She scratched. She screamed, “JACKSON!” like it was her only chance to breathe.

  The second man moved fast, disappearing down the hall. Ella. Jackson knew where he was going before it happened. His heart stopped. His chest burned.

  Don’t. Don’t. DON’T.

  A flash of the hallway. His daughter’s tiny figure. Small hands holding a pink elephant plush. Her feet kicked. Her arms flailed as the man lifted her like a bag of sand, carrying her away.

  Her scream ripped through him.

  **"You son of a—”_ Jackson’s fist slammed the table so hard it cracked. The phone wobbled, but the screen kept playing.

  Her face. Her tear-streaked face. Her eyes darted left, then right, frantic, searching for something, someone. A single tear clung to her cheek, catching the light as it rolled down, slow and sharp as glass. Looking directly at the camera. Her lips moving, but no sound came through. He knew what she was saying.

  Daddy.

  The screen went black.

  Silence.

  Then, that voice. Calm. Measured. Unshaken. _"They’ll be okay if you simply do as I say."

  Jackson’s teeth ground together so hard he thought they’d break. His whole body shook, and for a moment, he didn’t know if it was rage or fear. Didn’t matter. The chains were rattling.

  "There’s a bag in the car, Jackson. Take it. Walk."

  He didn’t move. His eyes stayed on the phone, jaw locked so tight his neck ached.

  "Take. It. And. Walk."

  The voice didn’t rise, didn’t push. It didn’t have to. It was absolute. Controlled. Like the sound of steel sliding into place.

  Jackson’s breath came out slow, sharp. His eyes moved to the window. There it was. His car. Parked where he’d left it, but the driver’s side door was ajar. The bag sat on the passenger seat. Small. Black. Harmless-looking.

  "Don’t take the glasses off, Jackson."

  His brow furrowed. “What glasses?” he snapped, his voice hard but shaky. What kind of game is this?

  "In the bag. Don’t take them off. Or your whole life will be in a military prison. No visits. No calls. No family. No nothing."

  Jackson’s nostrils flared, eyes darting back to the phone. “You’re lying.”

  "Or maybe, just maybe," the voice continued, colder now, emptier. "I’ll cut my losses here and walk away. How’s that sound?"

  His heart stopped. The chains went silent.

  "Jackson!" It was her voice. His wife’s voice. Her real voice. Not a recording. A live feed. **"JACKSON!”_ It was distant, muffled, like she was calling from behind a wall, but it was her.

  His breath caught in his chest. “Sarah!”

  The line went dead.

  The sound of footsteps echoed down the street. Slow. Deliberate. Jackson’s eyes were sharp, but his mind was a storm. People passed him, faces blending into the crowd. His head tilted down, hood up, eyes forward, but his brain was locked on one thing — the bag. The weight of it against his hip, snug against his side, pressing like a constant reminder.

  The bag was smaller than it looked from the car. Black, smooth fabric, light but dense. He’d felt it shift as he walked. Something inside. Something heavy.

  He didn’t have to look. He knew.

  "Don’t open it until I tell you to."

  Jackson’s fingers twitched against the strap, knuckles white from the grip.

  He’s playing you, Cross.

  He knew it. The whole setup stank. The video, the call, the bag, the glasses. It was all too clean. His breath quickened, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. Every instinct screamed at him: a setup. A perfect, surgical setup. He’d done enough black-bag ops to see it for what it was.

  But he’d seen his daughter’s face. Her face.

  “I’m going to find you,” he muttered under his breath, lips barely moving. “You hear me? I’m going to find you.”

  The voice came in like it was already there. “No, Jackson.” It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t smug. It was worse than that.

  “No, you won’t.”

  He felt the burn behind his eyes. The raw, seething burn of being helpless. It hit deeper than anger. It felt like drowning.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “No one will be able to find you, either,” the voice added. “Those Glasses have LEDs. It's interfering with every camera on every street. You’re not just invisible, Jackson. You don’t exist.”

  He blinked hard, glancing at his reflection in a shop window as he passed. His face was there. His face was right there. But as he turned his head, something shifted. Tiny flashes. Little flickers of light barely visible at the edge of the glass. Like fireflies caught in a storm.

  “Just do me this favor, Jackson.”

  This time, the voice was different. Not cold. Not sharp. Almost... human. It wasn’t sympathy. It wasn’t pity. It was the kind of tone someone uses when they’re about to tell you something you don’t want to hear.

  “Or I’ll kill Ella first.” Jackson’s breath caught, chest tightening like a steel vice, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. His breath caught, chest tightening like a steel vice.

  The words hit like a bullet. Not fast. Slow. They sunk in. Deeper. Harder.

  Jackson’s breath stopped, his throat dry as ash.

  The sound of the city returned. Tires humming over pavement. Shoes tapping concrete. The distant bark of a dog.

  He kept walking. Hands in his jacket. Bag at his side. Each step felt heavier than the last, his shoulders sagging slightly under the invisible weight pressing down on him. LED flashes flickering in the glass next to him.

  His eyes stayed forward. His mind didn’t.

  “I’m going to find you,” he muttered again, quieter this time. It wasn’t just a threat — it was an oath. No one heard him.

  “No, Jackson. You won’t.”

  And for once, Jackson believed him.

  The bell above the door dinged as Jackson stepped inside. Sunlight poured in behind him, stretching his shadow long across the floor. Cool air hit him like a wall, carrying the scents of fresh bread, sugar, and ground coffee. He glanced at the room — people at booths, faces buried in their phones, forks scraping plates. Normal.

  He made his way to the counter, resting his hands on the edge, fingers tapping twice. He glanced once toward the door, then back at the counter. A woman with kind eyes and a tired smile approached. Her apron was clean, but her eyes were heavy.

  “What can I get you, honey?” Her voice was sweet, smooth like honey on warm bread.

  “A full pecan pie. To go.”

  “A full pecan pie. To go.” jackson said

  Her eyebrows lifted, and her grin widened. “Ooh, perfect timing,” she said. “They’ll be up in five minutes. Nothing beats a fresh pecan pie, huh, honey?”

  Jackson nodded once. His face didn’t shift.

  “Wait by the window,” the voice in his ear cut in. “Look outside.”

  He pulled his sling bag tighter against his side and moved to the window. The city outside moved like clockwork — cars stopping, horns honking, strangers walking in unspoken rhythm. His fingers drummed on the counter’s edge as he scanned the street.

  “Why are you doing this?” Jackson asked quietly, his eyes watching the world but his focus locked on the voice.

  “Like I said, I need a favor, Jackson.”

  Few minutes later.

  The bell above the door dinged again.

  A kid walked in. Hoodie two sizes too big, hands stuffed in the front pocket. He scanned the room — quick left, quick right — and his eyes locked on Jackson like he’d known where to look. The kid didn’t hesitate. He moved straight to him.

  He pulled out a small brown box. No logos. No labels. Just plain brown with a strip of black tape sealing it. He set it on the counter in front of Jackson and held out his hand.

  “Take it, and check your inside the pocket, pay the kid” the voice instructed.

  Jackson’s eyes flicked to the kid. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two crisp $100 bills, folded them, and pressed them into the kid's hand. No words. No questions. The kid’s hand closed around the cash.

  “Sweet,” the kid muttered, turning on his heel and walking toward the door. No rush. No panic. No second glance.

  Jackson’s eyes shifted toward the kitchen. The waitress was gone. She’d said she was checking on the pies. Of course she was.

  His eyes dropped to the box.

  “Open it.”

  Jackson peeled the tape back slowly. Inside, black foam molded into the perfect shape for one item. No labels. No markings. His eyes caught a small tab on the side.

  “Pull.”

  He hooked his thumb under the tab and yanked. The side of the box slid open like a hidden compartment. A slot appeared.

  “Hand in.”

  Jackson hesitated. His fingers hovered, his jaw clenching tighter than steel.

  “Hand. In.”

  His fingers hovered over the slot, hesitation tightening his chest like a coiled spring. Then, with a slow breath, he shoved his hand inside. His fingers brushed cool metal. Smooth. Cold. Familiar. His fingers traced the grip, the trigger guard, the suppressor. His heart sank into his chest.

  His gun.

  The voice returned, sharper this time. “Keep it clean, Jackson.”

  Jackson shut the compartment and slid the box into his sling bag. His fingers pressed against it through the fabric. Cold. Heavy. Too real.

  The man in the blue suit walked past the café window. Crisp. Clean. No rush.

  “That’s him.” The voice didn’t miss a beat. “Follow.”

  Jackson zipped his jacket and followed, his steps quiet but precise. No face. No trace. The man walked around the side of the café, phone in hand, eyes locked on the screen. He turned into the alley. No hesitation. No worry.

  “One shot, Jackson. No mess. Quiet. You can do that, right?”

  His knuckles whitened as his grip tightened around the gun. “Yeah.”

  “Good boy.”

  Jackson followed.

  The alley was narrow, lined with dumpsters and stuffed with bags. The smell of rotten food and hot garbage filled the air. His eyes scanned the ground. Gravel. Wet streaks from leaky garbage bags.

  The man walked to a steel door, pulling up his sleeve. Jackson caught sight of it. A tattoo. Black ink. A coiled serpent around a string of numbers.

  Cartel ink.

  “Do it, Jackson.” The voice was steady, cold. “No speeches.”

  Jackson's hand hovered inside the box. His chest felt tight. His fingers brushed against cold metal, tracing the smooth surface of the grip. His breath slowed, and for a moment, everything felt heavier.

  The man turned, his face scrunching into confusion that shifted into fear.

  Pop.

  The suppressed shot barely echoed, but the impact was thunder. His head snapped back like a puppet with its strings cut. His body folded against the wall, knees buckling before he hit the ground behind the dumpster. Blood bloomed slow at first, then faster, curling into the rain-soaked garbage water.

  “Ten seconds.”

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  A garbage truck backed into the alley, the rear doors lining up perfectly.

  “Box and Bag, Jackson.”

  Jackson withdrew his hand from the box, unhooked the sling bag from his shoulder, and tossed it into the back of the truck.

  “Pick up your phone. Go home. And smile while you do it.”

  His phone buzzed. Wife.

  He answered. “Hey.”

  “Hey, babe,” she said, light and soft. “Where are you? We just got home.”

  His chest squeezed tight. “Picking up dessert.”

  “Hurry up.”

  “They were never in danger,” the voice said. “Thank you for your service, Speical Sergeant Jackson Cross.”

  Jackson didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

  The bell dinged as he walked back into the café, his shoulders tight with tension, his eyes scanning every face in the room. Each step felt deliberate, his movements slower, more calculated than before.

  —--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The headline read:

  "MURDER IN THE ALLEY IN BROAD DAYLIGHT — PUBLIC REJOICES"

  The anchor’s voice played over shots of the crime scene, police tape fluttering like ribbons in the breeze.

  “Breaking news out of the city. Manel 'Cobra' Riz, one of the most wanted cartel figures in the world, was executed in a back alley this morning. Ruiz has been linked to over two dozen cases of human trafficking, drug smuggling, and money laundering. Authorities are investigating the mysterious circumstances of his death, but so far, no suspects have been identified.”

  The screen cut to a reporter standing outside the café.

  “This incident marks the fourth high-profile figure taken out this month. Some are speculating about a vigilante group, while others have pointed to a website that’s recently been making waves online — 'Webs & Truths,' a public site dedicated to exposing high-level criminals with full profiles, locations, and daily movements.”

  The broadcast switched to footage of the site. A simple, minimalist layout. A logo of a spider’s web overlapped with an all-seeing eye. Below it, the slogan:

  "The Truth is Tangled. We Untangle It."

  The screen scrolled, revealing a “hit list” of wanted figures. Faces. Names. Crimes. Underneath each name, an ominous red button:

  "Contract Completed."