They found Lena Hartman’s body behind an abandoned warehouse on the east side of Brookdale—stuffed into a dumpster as if her life had meant nothing. Twenty-three years old. Three clean shots: chest, chest, heart. No struggle. No hesitation. A professional’s work.
The detective assigned to the case, Caldwell, gave me the standard line: “Looks gang-related, Mr. Hartman.”
But I knew better.
I always know better.
For twenty years I operated under the codename “Wraith”, conducting deniable missions for a program the government officially swore never existed. When I retired five years ago, I promised Lena I’d burned that life to ash. She never knew the details—only that her father had spent decades doing “dangerous things for complicated people.”
Now she was dead.
I started retracing her last steps. Her phone records showed a call the night she vanished—an unlisted number with ties to a logistics company rumored to be a front for the Marcone crime syndicate. Rumors said their boss, Domenic Marcone, had become paranoid in recent months, obsessed with leaks in his organization. Witnesses disappeared. Informants turned up dead. Someone had seen something they shouldn’t have—someone like Lena.
The deeper I dug, the more I realized this wasn’t just mob business. Someone inside the federal intelligence network had scrubbed files relating to Marcone’s shipments. Someone with access. Someone scared.
By the time I reached Lena’s apartment, it had already been tossed. Not by police—by professionals. They were searching for something she took. A flash drive? A photo? A conversation recorded by accident? I didn’t know. But someone was desperate to erase her last 48 hours.
I found only one clue: a shredded business card in her trash. When I reassembled it, the words hit me like a physical blow:
“Aurelius Holdings – Strategic Security Consulting”
I knew that name. It was a cover for ex–Black Ops contractors who’d gone private—and dirty. Men I once served with. Men who knew who I was.
That night, as I watched surveillance footage of the alley where Lena was taken, I froze. One of the abductors moved with military precision—stance tight, recoil control perfect. A signature I recognized instantly.
Jonas Creed.
My former partner.
He’d betrayed the program years ago, vanished into the criminal underworld. And now he had killed my daughter.
But why?
And more importantly—what had Lena uncovered that terrified a mob boss, a rogue intelligence network, and an international contractor group all at once?
As I loaded my weapons and prepared to disappear into the world I once abandoned, one question burned through me:
What secret was my daughter murdered for—and who else is willing to kill to keep it buried?
PART 2Â
I began with the one person in Brookdale who still owed me a favor: Detective Mara Voss, a cop with a sharp mind and a grudge against corruption that never did her career any favors. She didn’t flinch when I told her Jonas Creed was alive. But when I mentioned Aurelius Holdings, she went pale.
“You don’t want to get involved with them again, Adrian,” she warned. “They’re not the same mercenaries you remember.”
“They killed Lena,” I replied. “I’m already involved.”
She slipped me a folder she wasn’t supposed to have. Inside were photos of weapons shipments seized months earlier—military grade, off the books, traced back to Marcone’s docks. But the manifest logs had been sanitized by a federal contact: Director Samuel Keene of the Intelligence Oversight Bureau.
A name I had not expected.
Keene had once been my handler. A man who prided himself on “necessary sacrifices.” If Lena had stumbled onto one of his covert operations, Keene wouldn’t hesitate to tie up loose ends—including her.
I needed leverage, so I went hunting for Creed first.
Rumors placed him at a secure club on the outskirts of the city—Marcone’s personal meeting ground. The place was a fortress, guarded by ex–special forces. I watched for hours before I saw Creed exit through a side door, flanked by two armed escorts. Older now. Colder. But unmistakable.
I tailed them to a warehouse district. From the rooftop I watched crates unloaded from unmarked trucks—heavy crates. Weapon-sized.
Then I saw it: Aurelius Holdings’ insignia burned into the wood.
Suddenly the picture sharpened. Keene and Aurelius weren’t just cooperating with Marcone—they were using him as cover to funnel weapons to foreign buyers. Illegal, deniable, profitable. Lena must have witnessed the exchange or captured something on video.
I slipped inside the warehouse, silent as breath. One guard. Two. Down. No killing yet—information first.
I found Creed in an office overlooking the floor. He looked up as I stepped through the door, shock flickering before arrogance took over.
“Adrian Hartman,” he said. “Didn’t think you had the stomach to come back.”
“You killed my daughter.”
His jaw tightened. “It wasn’t supposed to be her. The order was to clean up witnesses at the docks. She ran into something she shouldn’t have.”
“On whose orders?” I demanded.
He hesitated just long enough to confirm my suspicion.
“Keene,” he finally muttered. “You know how he operates. Marcone gets the blame, Aurelius gets paid, Keene keeps his hands clean.”
Before I could press him further, alarms detonated throughout the building.
Creed smirked. “You shouldn’t have come alone.”
Dozens of armed men poured in, weapons raised.
I smashed through a window as gunfire erupted behind me, rolling across the roof and sprinting into the night. Creed escaped. But now I had confirmation—Keene was orchestrating the entire network.
As I vanished into the city, only one question mattered:
If Keene ordered Lena’s death… what is he covering up that could collapse the entire intelligence community?
Part 3 continues…
PART 3Â
The next step was the most dangerous: infiltrating the Intelligence Oversight Bureau. Keene kept his real files in an off-grid archive beneath the building—encrypted, analog backups, impossible to hack remotely. I needed physical access.
Detective Voss created a diversion by initiating a falsified internal audit request. While security scrambled, I slipped into the restricted floors using stolen credentials from a corrupt agent who wouldn’t miss them until morning.
The archive was protected by retinal scanners and pressure sensors. Old tech, but reliable. I bypassed the locks with tools I swore I’d never use again.
Inside, I found the classified ledger documenting years of covert transactions. Then I found Lena’s name.
Not as a witness.
Not as a civilian casualty.
As a threat designation.
Keene had flagged her the moment she uploaded footage of the docks to a private cloud server. She had tagged it “For Dad, in case something happens.” Keene must have intercepted the metadata and panicked when he recognized my real name.
The footage showed Marcone’s men unloading crates under Aurelius supervision while Keene oversaw the transfer remotely via encrypted comms. It was undeniable. If exposed, it would implicate half a dozen government officials and dismantle an entire black-market pipeline.
Lena hadn’t just witnessed an illegal shipment. She had uncovered a conspiracy large enough to bring down powerful men.
That’s why she died.
As I copied the files, alarms blared. Keene’s voice echoed through the intercom.
“Adrian, I know you’re in there. Walk out now, and we can negotiate. This doesn’t have to end badly.”
He still thought I was the operative he once controlled.
I moved through the shadows of the sublevel, taking out guards with precision—non-lethal, quiet, efficient. These were agents doing their jobs, not the men who killed my daughter.
Keene stood alone in the control hub when I entered, hands raised.
“You’re ruining everything,” he said. “You think the world is cleaner without men like me? Without operations like this? We protect stability.”
“You killed my daughter for stability.”
“She was collateral. You, of all people, should understand.”
I didn’t reply. Instead, I uploaded the files to every investigative journalist and oversight office in the country. As the transfer completed, Keene lunged for his weapon.
I stopped him.
By the time federal marshals stormed the building, Keene was alive—but exposed, arrested, and finished. Marcone fled the city hours later. Creed vanished again into whatever dark corner would take him.
Justice wasn’t perfect. But Lena’s story would be known. Her death wouldn’t disappear into the machinery of corruption.
I visited her grave at sunrise. For the first time since I found her body, I let myself breathe.
“I couldn’t save you,” I whispered. “But I made sure they’ll never harm another daughter.”
The world would keep its secrets. But not this one. Not anymore.
And as I walked away, one final thought burned in my mind:
If you want more of Adrian Hartman’s story… should he hunt down Creed next, or disappear forever?
