Chapter 9 - The Ghost Returns
Back in Baltimore, three days after the ambush in the alley, Curtis Hale sat behind the mahogany desk in the penthouse office, pouring himself another celebratory glass of scotch.
The transition of power had been swift and brutal. The board of directors had officially voted him CEO of Vance Maritime Logistics. The rival syndicates had sent floral arrangements. Everything was falling into place.
Except for one nagging detail.
"What do you mean, you can't find the cleanup crew?" Curtis snapped, glaring across the desk at Frankie, whose face was beaded with nervous sweat.
"I mean, boss, they went off the grid three nights ago," Frankie stammered. "Their phones are dead, their apartment in South Philly is empty, and... and their car was found abandoned near the city line."
Curtis slammed his glass down, the scotch splashing across the polished wood. "Check the cameras! Check the toll booths! Someone knows where they went!"
Before Frankie could answer, the secure landline telephone sitting on the corner of the desk—a direct, encrypted line that only rang when something catastrophic was happening—began to ring.
Brrrring.
Brrrring.
The sound echoed through the silent penthouse like a death knell.
Curtis stared at the black receiver as if it were a venomous snake. Slowly, he reached out and lifted it to his ear.
"Hale," he said, his voice dropping into a cold, defensive register.
For a few seconds, there was only static on the line. Then, a low, smooth, terrifyingly familiar voice spoke from the speaker—a voice that had haunted the nightmares of every criminal from New York to Miami for two decades.
"Happy Founder's Day, Curtis," Roland Vance whispered softly. "How does my chair feel?"
The color drained entirely from Curtis’s face. He gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. "Roland... that's impossible. You're dead. We put you in the harbor."
"Correction, Curtis," Roland’s voice purred with icy amusement. "You left me in the snow. And out here on the docks, everybody knows... you shouldn't trust a stray dog to finish a job."
Click.
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The line went dead.
Curtis dropped the receiver, his chest heaving, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. "Get the hitters!" he screamed at Frankie, losing all composure. "Get every man we have on the payroll! He's coming back! He's coming back for all of us!"
