The Boss of the Shadow Syndicate held his suppressed pistol perfectly still, the cold steel barrel resting directly against Ethan's forehead.
Ethan could only glare up into the piercing red eyes staring out from behind the featureless white mask. Blood pooled beneath his shattered limbs. Is this it? he thought, his pulse roaring in his ears. Is this the end for the me?...
The masked man stared down at him for a long, heavy moment. Then, with an agonizingly slow movement, he holstered the weapon. The Boss dropped to one knee, lowering himself to Ethan's level on the blood-stained pavement.
"So, Terminator... how does it feel to be completely dismantled?" the Boss asked, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm.
Ethan didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. He simply locked eyes with the man, focusing every shred of his willpower on stabilizing his ragged breathing.
"Let me tell you something, Ethan," the Boss murmured, leaning closer.
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "How do you know my name?"
"It doesn't matter," the Boss replied dismissively. He took a slow, deliberate breath before continuing. "What does matter is that I am not going to kill you."
Ethan frowned, the pain in his body temporarily eclipsed by pure confusion. "Why?"
"Because someone wants you alive. Personally, I view you as an active threat—a variable that should be permanently eliminated as soon as possible. But don't worry, my employer has already wired the funds to secure your safety."
"Who...?" Ethan croaked.
Why is Boss talking to him? Vic thought, watching from the distance with his men.
"I am not at liberty to disclose their identity," the Boss said. "But you are only breathing right now because of their deep pockets."
Ethan's mind raced. Someone bought my life? From the Shadow Syndicate?
"Even back in the day, your name always carried weight. The Terminator. But you want to know the truth? I could end you this very second if I chose to," the Boss said, pushing himself up to a full stand. "But whoever is backing you isn't an ordinary man. He personally requested your survival. That is the real reason your paths never crossed with ours during your time on the battlefield."
Ethan gritted his teeth, his muscles twitching as he desperately tried to force his broken legs to move.
"Don't bother, Ethan," the Boss chided, looking down with casual arrogance. "You couldn't defeat me even if you were a fifty times stronger than you are in your peak condition."
The Boss crouched down one last time, his masked face inches from Ethan's. "Tell me something... that man, the one backing you... no one wants to mess with him. Why is someone of his stature shielding you? Do you have something on him? Are you blackmailing him?"
"I don't have a damn clue what you're talking about," Ethan rasped.
The Boss studied him through the slits of the white mask for a beat, searching for a lie, before standing back up. He turned his back on the legendary mercenary.
"Shadow Syndicate, we're pulling out," the Boss commanded.
"Bus Boss, are we going to leave him alive?" Vic asked.
The Boss glared at him, the glare terrified Vic.
"Roger that," Vic nodded instantly, signaling the remaining shock troops. Within a single minute, the syndicate vanished into the surrounding city like ghosts.
"Goodbye, Terminator Mercenary," the Boss murmured, stepping into the back of his white-leather interior. The heavy door of the Rolls-Royce Limousine clicked shut, and the luxury vehicle purred smoothly away into the night.
Ethan was left entirely alone on the cold asphalt, bleeding out into the dark. He turned his head slightly, staring back up at the looming shadow of the hotel.
I wonder how Liam and Asher are holding up, Ethan thought, his vision beginning to blur.
Elsewhere...
Murphy stood motionless before a floor-to-ceiling panoramic window, staring out over the sprawling, glowing grid of the city skyline. His expression was locked in deep, unreadable thought.
Behind him, Henry broke the silence. "Murphy, let me share a little fun fact with you."
Murphy offered a slight, silent nod, his eyes never leaving the glass.
"In a high-level engagement, the ears are your most critical vulnerability," Henry explained, his tone conversational. "If an operative manages to slam both of their palms simultaneously against an opponent's ears, the sheer concussive pressure shuts down their sensory processing entirely. For a period of time, they are stripped of everything but raw instinct. The inner ear dictates both hearing and equilibrium."
Henry paused, waiting. Murphy slowly turned his head to look back at him.
"But there is a distinct problem with this technique," Henry continued, locking eyes with Murphy. "It works on absolutely everyone. No matter how strong they think they are."
Murphy nodded slowly, processing the strategic weight of the words.