THE GHOST AWAKE

"Drop the guns, Russo," Vargas commanded from the shadows.

Damian slowly placed his weapon in the mud and stood up, placing himself squarely between the sniper lasers and Lena. He spread his arms wide, making himself the largest possible target.

"Take me, Hector," Damian yelled into the darkness. "You want the territory? It’s yours. The shipping lanes, the politicians, the docks. All of it. Let the woman and the boy walk."

Vargas laughed. "You have nothing to give me, Damian. Your wife drained your accounts, and the Feds have your docks. You are a king of dirt. I am here to finish the job I started ten years ago in Mexico."

Lena’s grip on the letter tightened. She looked at Damian’s broad back, realizing he was fully prepared to die right here, in the mud, for a son he had known for less than ten minutes.

"Damian," Lena whispered urgently. "The ledger."

Damian didn't look back. "What about it?"

"The Feds didn't take your offshore money. I did." Lena stepped closer to his back, shielding Leo behind her coat. "The routing numbers are on my burner phone in the car. If we make it out of this, I can give it all back."

Damian let out a grim, hollow laugh. "Keep it, Lena. Buy him a good life."

From the shadows, Vargas stepped forward, an assault rifle raised. "Enough talking. Goodbye, Elena."

He pulled the trigger.

Damian moved with terrifying speed. He lunged backward, tackling Lena and Leo to the ground just as a hail of bullets shredded the side of the sedan.

Pain exploded in Damian’s shoulder, then his side. He gasped, falling heavy over them, using his own body as a Kevlar vest.

"Damian!" Lena screamed.

Suddenly, the roar of a helicopter engine drowned out the gunfire. A blinding spotlight hit the railyard from above. Sirens wailed from every direction.

Marco hadn't just stayed behind to die. He had called the Feds to the railyard.

FBI tactical teams swarmed the perimeter, exchanging heavy fire with Vargas’s men. Vargas cursed, realizing he was outgunned, and turned to run toward the tracks.

Damian pushed himself up onto one knee, blood pouring from his side. He picked up his discarded gun from the mud with a shaking hand. He aimed down the sights.

"For Margaret," Damian snarled.

He fired a single shot.

Vargas dropped instantly, a bullet cleanly severing his spine. The cartel leader who had haunted Lena’s nightmares for ten years fell dead in the Boston dirt.

Damian dropped the gun. He looked back at Lena, a faint, sad smile crossing his pale lips. He reached into his blood-soaked jacket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. He pressed it into Lena’s hand.

It was a train ticket to Montreal. Dated for tonight.