The aroma of medium-roast Arabica coffee beans filled a ten-by-eight-meter room at the corner of Milwaukee Avenue, Wicker Park. Outside, a light drizzle dampened the Chicago sidewalks, which were beginning to clear out. The damp coats of pedestrians flashed past behind the frosted front window, reflecting the silhouette of a sturdy man wearing a plain black t-shirt and a dark brown cloth apron.The man's name was Mason Hayes.His right hand, covered in severe burn scar tissue, held the portafilter handle with insane precision. Flawless. Without missing a single millimeter as he locked it into the Italian porcelain espresso machine in front of him. Three months ago, a Top Secret document at the Pentagon recorded the death of Mason Hayes. A helicopter explosion at the border line of Raqqa, Syria, tore his body to shreds—at least, that is what US military intelligence believed. The world knew this man as "Ghost," the lethal commander of the covert squadron Task Force Obsidian.But this m

Mason didn't answer right away. The atmosphere inside Mrs. Beatrice's flower shop felt so silent, dominated only by the old woman's labored breathing beside him and the patter of raindrops hitting the front window. On the telephone receiver, the hiss of the military radio frequency sounded like a whisper of death from the past that he was trying to bury deep down."Mason? Are you still there?" the woman's voice cut through the silence again. Her tone was cold, calculated, and very familiar. Major Brenda Vance from the Pentagon's Military Intelligence Division.Mason took a deep breath through his nose, lowering the tension in his vocal cords. "You have the wrong number, Ma'am. This is a flower shop on Milwaukee Avenue.""Don't play dumb with me, Ghost," Brenda hissed. "There are only two people on this planet who possess that secret-channel encryption protocol. Two of them are rotting in the soil of Syria, and the third is pretending to be a civilian in Chicago. We detected a military

Mason did not shift his gaze. He maintained his friendly smile—the type of neutral, warm expression typically worn by a service clerk trained to handle difficult customers."The Quiet Nook sticker?"Mason chuckled softly, shaking his head as if hearing a silly joke. "Ah, that must be Toby's doing. My young cashier just handed out a hundred promotional stickers around the train station two days ago. Anyone could pick one up from a utility pole or a trash can, Detective."Valerie did not laugh along. Her cheek muscles remained tight. "Gaston Pierre isn't the type to collect promotional stickers in his trouser pockets, Hayes. That man is an international fugitive. He’s a former Foreign Legionnaire hired by the mafia to clean up people who refuse to bow.""Well, maybe he stopped by to buy a coffee before getting arrested?" Mason said casually, twisting the portafilter handle and locking it into the machine's group head. "Or maybe he's just a lucky criminal who found our sticker on the str

The cold wind slammed the narrow alley door behind Ashland Avenue. The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance, answering the chaotic chorus of car horns trapped in total gridlock.Mason landed on a pile of wet cardboard without making the slightest sound. Tucked tightly against his right arm, Claire Montgomery still had her eyes closed. The girl's body shook violently, her breath coming in fast, ragged gasps as she fought off hysteria."You can open your eyes now, Miss," Mason's voice sounded low, calm, and steady—not sounding at all like a man who had just vaulted a two-meter-high wall while carrying a human being.Claire opened her eyes slowly. Her trembling fingers still clutched tightly to Mason's black t-shirt. Realizing they were now inside a dark, quiet alley far from the chaos of Ashland Avenue, Claire jerked backward until her back hit the brick wall."D-don't come closer!" Claire screamed, her voice raspy. Her swollen eyes stared at Mason with a mixture of fear and ex