He Came Back to Collect

Chapter 009

Night had fallen over the city.

The wide boulevard, so crowded during the day, now lay nearly empty. Shadows stretched long across the pavement, and the dark alleyways between buildings seemed to pulse with a quiet, threatening energy.

Without warning, two figures burst from one of those pitch-black alleys, their footsteps rapid and purposeful as they crossed the street toward the brilliantly lit five-star hotel on the opposite side.

Normally, at this hour, the establishment would have closed its doors. Tonight, however, the lobby buzzed with activity and voices. The reason was simple: Greyston Barden, founder of the Prescott Group, was hosting a gathering for the city's elite, a networking event that had drawn the upper echelons of society like moths to a flame.

As a young billionaire worth more than ten billion dollars, Mr. Barden commanded respect wherever he went. His reputation alone was enough to make this event the hottest ticket in town. Even businessmen who hadn't received official invitations had shown up anyway, shameless in their determination to rub elbows with the young mogul and perhaps find an opportunity to advance their own fortunes.

"Hannah," one of the figures murmured as they slipped through the hotel's side entrance, "you're absolutely certain Greyston Barden will be here tonight?"

"Of course," Hannah replied without hesitation, her voice low and confident. "Our intelligence never fails. He'll be here."

The two shadows were Cornell Bateman and Hannah Beatty, and they had slipped into the hotel without trouble. They'd already changed into the formal attire they'd prepared in advance and now sat face to face at one of the tables in the grand ballroom, wine glasses in hand, surrounded by elaborate dishes they barely touched.

Cornell cut an impressive figure in his designer black suit, paired with a crisp blue tie. His hair had been styled with obvious care, each strand carefully arranged to give him an air of refinement. The tailored suit hugged his frame perfectly, making him look every inch the confident, ambitious rich kid who belonged in a place like this. Combined with his naturally striking presence, there was something almost magnetic about him. An invisible barrier seemed to form around him, a bubble of space that others instinctively respected.

Hannah had also donned a black suit, hers cut in a professional, business-like style. But compared to Cornell, she'd kept things much more understated. After all, they were here for revenge and murder, not to show off like peacocks.

"Hey there, handsome. Care for a drink?"

A wave of heavy perfume announced the newcomer before her words did. Cornell turned to find a woman standing beside him, all bright smiles and elaborate makeup, holding a glass of red wine. Her eyes sparkled with unmistakable interest as she batted her lashes at him.

"Oh my god," Hannah muttered, pressing one hand to her forehead in exasperation. "That makes eight."

Since they'd sat down, this was already the eighth woman to approach Cornell uninvited. What the hell did these women see in him? Were they all blind, or did they just have terrible taste?

Cornell glanced up briefly, his expression polite but distant. "Sorry, miss. I don't drink with strangers."

He lowered his gaze again, swirling the wine in his own glass with casual indifference.

"Wow, you're so interesting," the woman cooed, seemingly undeterred by the rejection. If anything, she looked even more fascinated, staring at Cornell with open admiration before finally, reluctantly, drifting away from their table.

"Are you kidding me right now?" Hannah hissed, leaning forward. "We're here to kill someone and get revenge. You don't need to make yourself the center of attention like this."

Even professional assassins knew to blend in during a mission, to disguise themselves as beggars or waiters or other unremarkable figures that people would overlook. But this bastard had dressed himself up like a groom at his own wedding and was doing absolutely nothing to conceal the aura that radiated from him.

Anyone with functioning eyes would notice him immediately. Wasn't this basically announcing to Greyston Barden that they'd arrived?

"Is it really that bad?" Cornell asked, completely unconcerned.

He lifted his wine glass with exaggerated gentlemanly grace and took a leisurely sip. Then he turned his gaze across the room, catching the eyes of several women who'd been stealing glances at him. He flashed them a slight smile and raised his glass in acknowledgment.

The response was immediate and dramatic.

"Oh my god, he's so gorgeous. I think I'm going to faint."

"Me too..."

Hannah's jaw clenched, her face darkening with frustration. She was absolutely certain now that this bastard was doing it on purpose. And these brainless women falling all over themselves just made it worse.

Then the sound system crackled to life. After a brief test of the microphone, a clear, confident voice rang out across the ballroom.

"Good evening, everyone. I'm delighted that you've all done me the honor of attending tonight's gathering."

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause.

But Cornell and Hannah reacted differently. Their bodies tensed simultaneously, muscles coiling like springs. They looked up and met each other's eyes, and in that shared glance, they both saw the same thing: hatred, barely contained, burning like fire behind their pupils.

They knew that voice far too well. It belonged to Greyston Barden.

"That bastard," Cornell breathed. "It's really him."

The wine glass in his hand suddenly shattered, crushed by the force of his grip. Red wine and glass shards scattered across the table and floor. Fortunately, everyone's attention was fixed on the stage, and no one noticed.

"Let's see what this bastard is planning," Hannah murmured, nodding toward Cornell. "Then we'll kill him."

On stage, a well-dressed man with an air of sophistication stood holding the microphone, his face lit with a warm smile. "Tonight, the Prescott Group has invited you all as our honored guests. But of course, we don't want this evening to pass by unremarkably. To make it more meaningful, I've made a last-minute decision. Tonight, we're going to hold an impromptu charity auction. Anyone can offer items, and all proceeds will be donated to those in need."

"Excellent! The Bancroft Group is the first to support Mr. Barden's plan!"

"Mr. Barden truly is a role model among young entrepreneurs. So generous, so compassionate."

"Absolutely. Everyone should participate. We can't let Mr. Barden's kindness go to waste."

The moment Greyston Barden finished speaking, the room exploded with applause and animated chatter. The content was predictable without even listening closely. Everyone was falling over themselves to praise Mr. Barden.

"That piece of garbage," Hannah muttered, her delicate features twisted with disgust as she glared at the stage. "Spouting such noble-sounding lies. Absolutely shameless."

"Don't worry," Cornell said quietly, his eyes locked on Greyston Barden with predatory focus. His voice was devoid of emotion, cold as ice. "Tonight, I'm going to show him that evil can never triumph over justice."

"Well then," Greyston Barden continued, beaming at the crowd, "since everyone's so enthusiastic, let me offer the first item for auction."

He reached up and removed a pendant from around his neck, placing it on the podium.

"This is a pendant I acquired by chance during my time in the military. I hope you'll all give me a fair valuation for it."

Cornell's eyes locked onto the pendant. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. Veins bulged at his temples. He recognized it instantly. That pendant had belonged to one of his fallen brothers, a comrade who'd died in service. Cornell had wanted nothing more than to return their possessions to their families, to give those grieving loved ones some small measure of closure.

And this bastard, Greyston Barden, hadn't even spared the belongings of the dead. He'd taken them, kept them, and now he was putting them up for auction under the guise of charity.

"Two million. I bid two million."

The businessmen in attendance, all regional executives and company presidents, immediately began competing to bid, eager to curry favor with the Prescott Group and its powerful founder.

"Two and a half million," a balding older man announced, raising his hand.

"Three million," someone else called out.

The energy in the room climbed higher, voices growing louder and more excited with each bid. On stage, Greyston Barden's smile widened.

He'd promised to donate the proceeds to impoverished regions, sure. But how much actually got donated, where it went, that was entirely up to him, wasn't it? As far as he was concerned, these people were nothing but fat, gullible sheep, ripe for the shearing.