16-01-2026, 11:11 PM
(This post was last modified: 16-01-2026, 11:13 PM by Harry Jordan. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
(CHAPTER CONTD)
THE NEXT MORNING IN LONDON!
London woke up wrong that morning.
Not loud. Not broken. Just… wrong.
The air felt heavier, like the city itself was holding its breath. Fog crept low through the streets—not the romantic kind tourists loved, but the kind that carried rumors and dread. Bells tolled from Saint Michael’s Church in Cornhill, each note sinking into stone, into bone. Father Dominic was dead. And everyone who mattered in the shadows knew what that meant.
Outside the church, Richard Williams stood at the roadside entrance, coat buttoned, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. His men were positioned with surgical precision—some visible, some pretending to be mourners, some pretending to be nothing at all. They weren’t guarding the funeral.
They were waiting.
Across the street, inside the upper floors of adjoining buildings, lenses pointed downward. Cameras whirred softly, feeds traveling through cables and satellites, slicing across continents.
In Shanghai, high above the neon arteries of the city, Jiu Mei sat before a wall-sized screen. The leader of the Sun On Yee Triad watched the church entrance without blinking, a faint smile playing on her lips. She had known Father Dominic once. She had known Michael King far better.
In Qamarvan village, Azerbaijan, Daraaksh Zarir hammered his fists into a heavy bag, sweat streaking down his bare shoulders. A live feed played on a mounted screen nearby. Each punch landed in rhythm with his thoughts.
He will come, Daraaksh told himself. For the priest… he will come. Halfway across the world, Heathrow Airport was a loaded gun. Every major faction of London’s underworld had men there—armed, impatient, reckless. They expected blood on the tarmac. They were ready to make a legend die twice.
Then every phone buzzed.
Severe weather alert.
A fast-moving storm approaching from the east.
Some of the men laughed. Others frowned.
Far east of London, on the A130 highway cutting through Rochford, the storm already had a heart.
A black Mazzanti Evantra Millecavalli R tore through the road like a living thing, its engine howling, tires screaming, carbon fiber slicing through the air. Thunderheads rolled behind it, thick and violent, as if chained to the car’s wake. Rain lashed the countryside, chasing it.
![[Image: unnamed.jpg]](https://i.ibb.co/s96NVVJ7/unnamed.jpg)
Not following.
Obeying.
By the time the supercar crossed into London, the storm arrived with it. Wind slammed into buildings. Clouds swallowed the sun. The temperature dropped sharply enough that mourners outside Saint Michael’s pulled their coats tighter.
Cameras shifted. Conversations died.
At Saint Petersburg, Victor Tarasov leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing at the live feed his men were sending him. His associates fell silent. Old instincts stirred—instincts he hadn’t trusted in years.
At the Pentagon, a UAV circled above Cornhill. CIA analysts tracked atmospheric anomalies, traffic disruptions, thermal signatures. Sharon Reagan stood rigid, coffee forgotten in her hand.
"This can’t be coincidence" someone muttered.
Sharon didn’t answer. She already knew.
In Azerbaijan, Daraaksh stopped punching. He glanced sideways at the wall beside him—dozens of old photographs. Grainy images. Newspaper clippings. Surveillance stills.
Michael King. Bloody. Smiling. Untouchable.
Daraaksh smiled wide.
"Michael King" he said softly.
"He is back in his kingdom"
The Evantra screamed through London streets, people turning in awe at its alien design, unaware they were watching history restart. Traffic parted like instinct had taken the wheel. The storm roared overhead, then—suddenly—began to move on.
As the supercar slid to a stop near Saint Michael’s Church, thunder rolled one last time… and the clouds broke.
Sunlight spilled down, sharp and golden, illuminating the church façade as if God Himself had chosen a spotlight.
The car had arrived.
Richard Williams smiled.
His men moved immediately, forming a protective corridor. Cameras snapped. Feeds refocused. Every eye—human, digital, satellite—locked onto the vehicle. The driver’s door opened. A figure stepped out. Not a tailored suit. Not ceremonial black.
Leather.
A black, gleaming leather jacket hugged a broad frame. Matching leather pants. Jordan boots planted firmly on London stone. Medium-long hair moved slightly in the dying wind. The man’s back was to the world. Daraaksh frowned, intrigued.
"Interesting" he murmured.
Escorted by Williams’ men, the figure walked toward the church entrance with unhurried confidence, boots echoing louder than the bells ever could. He stopped just short of the door.
Every feed leaned closer. Why had he stopped? Then he turned. The man lifted his hand and removed his goggles. And the secret world saw his face.
In Azerbaijan, Daraaksh’s grin spread slowly, reverently.
"There he is!" he whispered.
In Washington, Sharon Reagan went pale. Her breath caught as she realized Hemant exposed himself to his enemies. In Shanghai, Jiu Mei smiled openly, raising her glass in silent acknowledgment of an old friend who refused to stay dead. In Saint Petersburg, Victor Tarasov stood up so fast his chair fell backward.
"Impossible...he was supposed to be dead!" he breathed.
The men filming him began to shake. One of Daraaksh’s bodyguards swallowed hard.
"Sir… it feels like he’s staring at us"
Daraaksh didn’t look away from the screen.
"Indeed.....because he knows we’re watching!" he said calmly.
On the church steps, Michael King let a small smile touch his lips. Just enough. He slid the goggles back on, turning away from the cameras, from the world, from the storm he’d dragged across continents.
And he walked inside Saint Michael’s Church to mourn his friend.
Behind him, legends stirred. Enemies trembled. Empires recalculated.
No one knew whether this was the return of an old myth…
or the birth of something far worse.
But everyone knew one thing for certain:
London would never be the same again.
Saint Michael’s Church was overflowing—rows of bowed heads, murmured prayers, the soft rustle of black coats brushing against stone pews. Candles flickered like nervous witnesses. Above it all, the choir sang a slow, aching hymn, their voices rising and falling like a tide meant to carry a good man home.
Michael moved through the crowd unnoticed, untouched, as if grief itself made way for him.
He stopped before the casket.
Father Dominic lay still, hands folded, face calm in the practiced peace of death. The man who had listened without judgment. Who had spoken of redemption to a monster and meant it. Michael rested his fingers lightly on the edge of the wood.
"You were the voice of light" he whispered, so softly even God might have leaned in to hear.
"You gave my purpose meaning..… you spoke to Michael King like I was the Archangel himself!"
His jaw tightened.
"Thank you, Father"
Then he saw it. The line. Faint. Precise. Ugly in its restraint. Stitches ran along the priest’s neck, hidden beneath makeup and reverence, but impossible to miss to a man who had spent a lifetime reading violence like a second language.
His eyes hardened.
Not old age. Not fate. Not God’s will. Murder.
Something inside Hemant snapped into alignment. Muscles coiled. Breath slowed. His vision tunneled, the world sharpening around a single truth.
Outside, the wind howled.
The candles trembled.
It felt—impossibly—like the storm was circling back.
Michael straightened and turned, his voice low, calm, lethal.
"Who did this?"
Richard Williams stood a few steps behind him. He hesitated. Michael turned fully now. Richard flinched. There was fire in those eyes—not just rage, not madness—but an inferno that will burn this church down in an instant. A vengeful purpose. The kind that erased mercy as a concept.
"Who did this, Richard?" Michael asked again.
A beat.
Then Richard exhaled.
"Lai Tong" he said.
Hemant didn’t blink.
"So he has no plans to back off!" he asked.
"I guess Ricky Tan was just the beginning.....he must be neutralized!" Richard nodded.
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
"He didn’t act alone.....The Hunt Crime Syndicate backed him" Richard added carefully.
That name landed like a match dropped into gasoline.
The Hunt Syndicate.
Michael King had buried bodies under that name once. It seems there are still bodies that are left to be buried.
He looked once more at Father Dominic’s body.
Then he turned away.
"I need a weapon" Michael said.
And he walked out of the church.
Across the street, in the upper floors of the hotel, the cameras never stopped rolling. One of William’s men intercepted Hemant at the steps, handing him a heavy black bag without a word.
Michael took it and continued to his supercar.
The Evantra’s door closed with a low, predatory thud.
Inside the car, he opened the bag.
An F90MBR assault rifle lay nestled inside, matte black and immaculate. A belt packed tight with ammunition. Grenades. Two Glock 17s—clean, reliable, familiar.
Michael nodded once. He zipped the bag shut. Outside, thunder rolled again—distant, promising. The engine ignited. Michael King put the car in gear, eyes forward, hands steady. Michael King had once terrorized the underworld. Now he was about to erase it.
And the Hunt Crime Syndicate?
They were about to learn the difference between a legend…...and a reckoning.
The Thames moved quietly , the water sliding past the riverside warehouse in Westminster like it wanted no part of what was about to happen. Inside, the Hunt Crime Syndicate was busy counting money, sealing deals, congratulating themselves. Thomas was caressing his ring— a sign among the syndicate of mid-level kings who thought themselves untouchable—were riding high.
Thomas himself leaned back in a chair inside the warehouse office, phone pressed to his ear, smirking.
"They’re angry? Good. Let them be angry. We helped Lai Tong cut a priest’s throat. So what? Fear is currency in this city—and tonight, we just printed more of it"
He scoffed.
On the other end of the line, his associate didn’t laugh.
"Thomas… it’s not just anger. Every faction is losing their mind. The Triads, the Russians, even the old independents"
Thomas rolled his eyes.
"London’s been waiting for someone to take control. The Hunt Syndicate will—"
The voice cut in, shaking now.
"THE HUNT SYNDICATE IS OVER TODAY!!!. WE'RE FINISHED!!!!"
"What are you talking about?" Thomas straightened.
A pause. Then, barely a whisper:
"MICHAEL KING IS ALIVE!. He’s back in London. He was spotted in the church.... He came today… for Father Dominic"
The name hit Thomas like a punch to the spine.
Michael King.
The Urban Legend of the Vigilante Gangster named after the Archangel himself!
The man known as the "Butcher Of Mayfair" as he massaccred the infamous druglord and cult leader Ronan Dragun and all his drug addicts and cultists.
A Relic who was believed to be long dead. Now returned as the Archangel himself!
"No,That’s not possible" Thomas muttered.
"I saw the feeds....Others did too. It’s him. And judging by how he stormed out , its not good news for any of us!"
The man insisted. Fear finally crept into Thomas’ voice.
"Sound the alarm. Now. Lock this place down"
He was already too late. The first explosion tore through the riverside wall like God had kicked it in. Fire bloomed along the dock. Water erupted skyward. Men screamed as shockwaves flung them like broken dolls. Alarms wailed. Crates shattered. Guns clattered to concrete.
"CONTACT—RIVERSIDE!" someone shouted.
Then the second blast went off.
And out of the smoke—The black Mazzanti Evantra Millecavalli R came screaming through the flames.
![[Image: Gemini-Generated-Image-ba6157ba6157ba61.png]](https://i.ibb.co/rKy9rjVR/Gemini-Generated-Image-ba6157ba6157ba61.png)
It burst through the warehouse gate, the supercars music system was playing music loudly to cancel out the sounds of gunfire and explosion. And the song of choice was rightful enough to do it.
The Vengeful One By The Disturbed
As I survey the chaos taking in the lack of raw humanity…
Its as if the entire world's fallen in love with their insanity.....
The supercar skidding sideways, tires shrieking, sparks flying. The car stopped dead in the center of hell.
Its doors opened. And the legend stepped out. The speakers roared to life.
I'm the Hand Of God…
I'm the Dark Messiah...
I'm the Vengeful One...
Michael King raised the F90MBR.
The rifle thundered.
Men fell before they could scream—rounds tearing through armor, bodies snapping back as if struck by invisible fists. Those wounded by the explosions were finished without hesitation. Controlled bursts. No wasted motion.
The Hunt Syndicate panicked.
Some ran.
Some fired wildly.
None survived.
Michael moved like a machine guided by wrath, advancing through smoke and debris, bullets stitching death into every corner. Each pull of the trigger was deliberate. Personal.
London woke up wrong that morning.
Not loud. Not broken. Just… wrong.
The air felt heavier, like the city itself was holding its breath. Fog crept low through the streets—not the romantic kind tourists loved, but the kind that carried rumors and dread. Bells tolled from Saint Michael’s Church in Cornhill, each note sinking into stone, into bone. Father Dominic was dead. And everyone who mattered in the shadows knew what that meant.
Outside the church, Richard Williams stood at the roadside entrance, coat buttoned, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. His men were positioned with surgical precision—some visible, some pretending to be mourners, some pretending to be nothing at all. They weren’t guarding the funeral.
They were waiting.
Across the street, inside the upper floors of adjoining buildings, lenses pointed downward. Cameras whirred softly, feeds traveling through cables and satellites, slicing across continents.
In Shanghai, high above the neon arteries of the city, Jiu Mei sat before a wall-sized screen. The leader of the Sun On Yee Triad watched the church entrance without blinking, a faint smile playing on her lips. She had known Father Dominic once. She had known Michael King far better.
In Qamarvan village, Azerbaijan, Daraaksh Zarir hammered his fists into a heavy bag, sweat streaking down his bare shoulders. A live feed played on a mounted screen nearby. Each punch landed in rhythm with his thoughts.
He will come, Daraaksh told himself. For the priest… he will come. Halfway across the world, Heathrow Airport was a loaded gun. Every major faction of London’s underworld had men there—armed, impatient, reckless. They expected blood on the tarmac. They were ready to make a legend die twice.
Then every phone buzzed.
Severe weather alert.
A fast-moving storm approaching from the east.
Some of the men laughed. Others frowned.
Far east of London, on the A130 highway cutting through Rochford, the storm already had a heart.
A black Mazzanti Evantra Millecavalli R tore through the road like a living thing, its engine howling, tires screaming, carbon fiber slicing through the air. Thunderheads rolled behind it, thick and violent, as if chained to the car’s wake. Rain lashed the countryside, chasing it.
Not following.
Obeying.
By the time the supercar crossed into London, the storm arrived with it. Wind slammed into buildings. Clouds swallowed the sun. The temperature dropped sharply enough that mourners outside Saint Michael’s pulled their coats tighter.
Cameras shifted. Conversations died.
At Saint Petersburg, Victor Tarasov leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing at the live feed his men were sending him. His associates fell silent. Old instincts stirred—instincts he hadn’t trusted in years.
At the Pentagon, a UAV circled above Cornhill. CIA analysts tracked atmospheric anomalies, traffic disruptions, thermal signatures. Sharon Reagan stood rigid, coffee forgotten in her hand.
"This can’t be coincidence" someone muttered.
Sharon didn’t answer. She already knew.
In Azerbaijan, Daraaksh stopped punching. He glanced sideways at the wall beside him—dozens of old photographs. Grainy images. Newspaper clippings. Surveillance stills.
Michael King. Bloody. Smiling. Untouchable.
Daraaksh smiled wide.
"Michael King" he said softly.
"He is back in his kingdom"
The Evantra screamed through London streets, people turning in awe at its alien design, unaware they were watching history restart. Traffic parted like instinct had taken the wheel. The storm roared overhead, then—suddenly—began to move on.
As the supercar slid to a stop near Saint Michael’s Church, thunder rolled one last time… and the clouds broke.
Sunlight spilled down, sharp and golden, illuminating the church façade as if God Himself had chosen a spotlight.
The car had arrived.
Richard Williams smiled.
His men moved immediately, forming a protective corridor. Cameras snapped. Feeds refocused. Every eye—human, digital, satellite—locked onto the vehicle. The driver’s door opened. A figure stepped out. Not a tailored suit. Not ceremonial black.
Leather.
A black, gleaming leather jacket hugged a broad frame. Matching leather pants. Jordan boots planted firmly on London stone. Medium-long hair moved slightly in the dying wind. The man’s back was to the world. Daraaksh frowned, intrigued.
"Interesting" he murmured.
Escorted by Williams’ men, the figure walked toward the church entrance with unhurried confidence, boots echoing louder than the bells ever could. He stopped just short of the door.
Every feed leaned closer. Why had he stopped? Then he turned. The man lifted his hand and removed his goggles. And the secret world saw his face.
In Azerbaijan, Daraaksh’s grin spread slowly, reverently.
"There he is!" he whispered.
In Washington, Sharon Reagan went pale. Her breath caught as she realized Hemant exposed himself to his enemies. In Shanghai, Jiu Mei smiled openly, raising her glass in silent acknowledgment of an old friend who refused to stay dead. In Saint Petersburg, Victor Tarasov stood up so fast his chair fell backward.
"Impossible...he was supposed to be dead!" he breathed.
The men filming him began to shake. One of Daraaksh’s bodyguards swallowed hard.
"Sir… it feels like he’s staring at us"
Daraaksh didn’t look away from the screen.
"Indeed.....because he knows we’re watching!" he said calmly.
On the church steps, Michael King let a small smile touch his lips. Just enough. He slid the goggles back on, turning away from the cameras, from the world, from the storm he’d dragged across continents.
And he walked inside Saint Michael’s Church to mourn his friend.
Behind him, legends stirred. Enemies trembled. Empires recalculated.
No one knew whether this was the return of an old myth…
or the birth of something far worse.
But everyone knew one thing for certain:
London would never be the same again.
Saint Michael’s Church was overflowing—rows of bowed heads, murmured prayers, the soft rustle of black coats brushing against stone pews. Candles flickered like nervous witnesses. Above it all, the choir sang a slow, aching hymn, their voices rising and falling like a tide meant to carry a good man home.
Michael moved through the crowd unnoticed, untouched, as if grief itself made way for him.
He stopped before the casket.
Father Dominic lay still, hands folded, face calm in the practiced peace of death. The man who had listened without judgment. Who had spoken of redemption to a monster and meant it. Michael rested his fingers lightly on the edge of the wood.
"You were the voice of light" he whispered, so softly even God might have leaned in to hear.
"You gave my purpose meaning..… you spoke to Michael King like I was the Archangel himself!"
His jaw tightened.
"Thank you, Father"
Then he saw it. The line. Faint. Precise. Ugly in its restraint. Stitches ran along the priest’s neck, hidden beneath makeup and reverence, but impossible to miss to a man who had spent a lifetime reading violence like a second language.
His eyes hardened.
Not old age. Not fate. Not God’s will. Murder.
Something inside Hemant snapped into alignment. Muscles coiled. Breath slowed. His vision tunneled, the world sharpening around a single truth.
Outside, the wind howled.
The candles trembled.
It felt—impossibly—like the storm was circling back.
Michael straightened and turned, his voice low, calm, lethal.
"Who did this?"
Richard Williams stood a few steps behind him. He hesitated. Michael turned fully now. Richard flinched. There was fire in those eyes—not just rage, not madness—but an inferno that will burn this church down in an instant. A vengeful purpose. The kind that erased mercy as a concept.
"Who did this, Richard?" Michael asked again.
A beat.
Then Richard exhaled.
"Lai Tong" he said.
Hemant didn’t blink.
"So he has no plans to back off!" he asked.
"I guess Ricky Tan was just the beginning.....he must be neutralized!" Richard nodded.
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
"He didn’t act alone.....The Hunt Crime Syndicate backed him" Richard added carefully.
That name landed like a match dropped into gasoline.
The Hunt Syndicate.
Michael King had buried bodies under that name once. It seems there are still bodies that are left to be buried.
He looked once more at Father Dominic’s body.
Then he turned away.
"I need a weapon" Michael said.
And he walked out of the church.
Across the street, in the upper floors of the hotel, the cameras never stopped rolling. One of William’s men intercepted Hemant at the steps, handing him a heavy black bag without a word.
Michael took it and continued to his supercar.
The Evantra’s door closed with a low, predatory thud.
Inside the car, he opened the bag.
An F90MBR assault rifle lay nestled inside, matte black and immaculate. A belt packed tight with ammunition. Grenades. Two Glock 17s—clean, reliable, familiar.
Michael nodded once. He zipped the bag shut. Outside, thunder rolled again—distant, promising. The engine ignited. Michael King put the car in gear, eyes forward, hands steady. Michael King had once terrorized the underworld. Now he was about to erase it.
And the Hunt Crime Syndicate?
They were about to learn the difference between a legend…...and a reckoning.
The Thames moved quietly , the water sliding past the riverside warehouse in Westminster like it wanted no part of what was about to happen. Inside, the Hunt Crime Syndicate was busy counting money, sealing deals, congratulating themselves. Thomas was caressing his ring— a sign among the syndicate of mid-level kings who thought themselves untouchable—were riding high.
Thomas himself leaned back in a chair inside the warehouse office, phone pressed to his ear, smirking.
"They’re angry? Good. Let them be angry. We helped Lai Tong cut a priest’s throat. So what? Fear is currency in this city—and tonight, we just printed more of it"
He scoffed.
On the other end of the line, his associate didn’t laugh.
"Thomas… it’s not just anger. Every faction is losing their mind. The Triads, the Russians, even the old independents"
Thomas rolled his eyes.
"London’s been waiting for someone to take control. The Hunt Syndicate will—"
The voice cut in, shaking now.
"THE HUNT SYNDICATE IS OVER TODAY!!!. WE'RE FINISHED!!!!"
"What are you talking about?" Thomas straightened.
A pause. Then, barely a whisper:
"MICHAEL KING IS ALIVE!. He’s back in London. He was spotted in the church.... He came today… for Father Dominic"
The name hit Thomas like a punch to the spine.
Michael King.
The Urban Legend of the Vigilante Gangster named after the Archangel himself!
The man known as the "Butcher Of Mayfair" as he massaccred the infamous druglord and cult leader Ronan Dragun and all his drug addicts and cultists.
A Relic who was believed to be long dead. Now returned as the Archangel himself!
"No,That’s not possible" Thomas muttered.
"I saw the feeds....Others did too. It’s him. And judging by how he stormed out , its not good news for any of us!"
The man insisted. Fear finally crept into Thomas’ voice.
"Sound the alarm. Now. Lock this place down"
He was already too late. The first explosion tore through the riverside wall like God had kicked it in. Fire bloomed along the dock. Water erupted skyward. Men screamed as shockwaves flung them like broken dolls. Alarms wailed. Crates shattered. Guns clattered to concrete.
"CONTACT—RIVERSIDE!" someone shouted.
Then the second blast went off.
And out of the smoke—The black Mazzanti Evantra Millecavalli R came screaming through the flames.
It burst through the warehouse gate, the supercars music system was playing music loudly to cancel out the sounds of gunfire and explosion. And the song of choice was rightful enough to do it.
The Vengeful One By The Disturbed
As I survey the chaos taking in the lack of raw humanity…
Its as if the entire world's fallen in love with their insanity.....
The supercar skidding sideways, tires shrieking, sparks flying. The car stopped dead in the center of hell.
Its doors opened. And the legend stepped out. The speakers roared to life.
I'm the Hand Of God…
I'm the Dark Messiah...
I'm the Vengeful One...
Michael King raised the F90MBR.
The rifle thundered.
Men fell before they could scream—rounds tearing through armor, bodies snapping back as if struck by invisible fists. Those wounded by the explosions were finished without hesitation. Controlled bursts. No wasted motion.
The Hunt Syndicate panicked.
Some ran.
Some fired wildly.
None survived.
Michael moved like a machine guided by wrath, advancing through smoke and debris, bullets stitching death into every corner. Each pull of the trigger was deliberate. Personal.
In the Blackest Moment of a Dying World…
What have you become.....
Inside the control office, Thomas and his closest men barricaded themselves behind desks and consoles, guns shaking in their hands.
Outside, gunfire raged.
Then—one by one—it stopped.
Silence.
"I think… I think its over!" Thomas swallowed.
That’s when the window exploded inward. A severed head flew across the room, eyes wide in frozen terror. A grenade was stuffed in its mouth. The blast was immediate. Three men vanished in red mist.
Thomas was thrown across the room, screaming, blood pouring from his side. He dragged himself toward the exit, sobbing, broken, desperate.
The riverside doors blew open.
Smoke rolled in.
Michael King stepped through it, twin Glock 17s raised, suppressors whispering death. Each remaining man dropped before they could beg.
Only Thomas remained.
He collapsed at Michael’s feet.
"Please—please—it wasn’t me!" Thomas cried.
"It was Mr. Hunt! David Charles Hunt ordered it! It was all business!"
Michael looked down at him. Cold. Empty.
"When you are in the business of blood....everyone is expendable!" he said calmly.
Thomas looked up, hope flickering.
"Then let me live. I’ll testify. I’ll be your weapon against Hunt!"
Michael crouched close.
"I’m making you something better than a weapon Thomas!" he said quietly.
"I'm making you my message....to not just Hunt....but all of London!!!"
Thomas screamed.
The warehouse echoed once…Then went silent.
Fifteen minutes later, London law enforcement arrived in force—sirens, floodlights, chaos.
The Evantra was gone. Michael King was gone. But at the center of the warehouse, they found Thomas. Hanging on a wooden cross. Arms spread. Blood dried like scripture.
Every officer felt it—the chill, the certainty. This wasn’t a message. It was a proclamation. Michael King was back in London. And the underworld was crawling deeper to hid themselves from his wrath!
THAT EVENING AT MASIRAH ISLAND
The sea was black and endless when the cargo seaplane touched down near Masirah Island.
Its pontoons slapped the water hard, spraying salt into the night air as the massive aircraft slowed, engines growling low and tired. The island loomed ahead—barren, forgotten, perfect. No satellites lingered here longer than they had to. No questions were asked on Masirah.
Hemant Kumar stepped out into the warm wind, leather jacket gone now, replaced by something simpler. Functional. The kind of clothes worn by men who planned to disappear again.
He was escorted inland by armed locals who didn’t speak and didn’t need to. The path cut through sand and rock until lights appeared—dim, disciplined. A private airstrip carved out of nowhere.
Waiting at the far end of it stood a sleek white Cessna TTX, fueled, humming softly like it was impatient.
And beside it—Yuri Reznov.
Older now. Thicker through the shoulders. Hair touched with gray, but the eyes were the same—sharp, amused, and dangerous. He opened his arms slightly as Hemant approached.
"Long time no see, Michael" Reznov said with a crooked smile.
"Just getting my groove back!" Hemant stopped a few feet away.
Reznov laughed quietly.
"Well you've refined yourself quiet well" He looked him up and down.
"I heard what you did in Westminster. David Hunt is blowing a gasket"
Hemant didn’t respond.
Reznov nodded.
"Alteast it was long overdue for their macho bullshit. But you’ve rung a bell that doesn’t stop ringing"
"They killed Father Dominic...That bell was already ringing" Hemant said.
"Let’s talk business before the desert gets curious"
Reznov accepted that. He gestured toward the Cessna. They walked.
"What about the network chain you just restarted at Madagascar?" Reznov said.
"Same old thing we used to do.....just a different pawn!"Hemant shook his head.
Reznov raised an eyebrow.
"I made a deal with the Mehta family in Mumbai. Influential. Quiet. Their cargo ship—Kohinoor—will carry the first shipment to Madagascar. Clean papers. Clean crew"
"And from there?" Reznov asked.
"Your planes.......same purpose....same destination!" Hemant said.
"Those elites.....do they know what the shipment is?"
"They just know about the mercury....nothing more"
"Efficient. You always were" Reznov smiled.
"This isn’t about money"
Hemant’s expression hardened. Reznov stopped walking.
"You’re going after AZRAEL" he said.
"I am not chasing them....I am hunting them down....for good!"
"That won’t be easy" Reznov exhaled slowly.
"It never is easy" Hemant sighed.
"Not like that Michael" Reznov said quietly.
"This time it’s different. AZRAEL is… a relic. Most of its old members are retired. Some are rusting. Some hiding"
"So?" Hemant asked.
Reznov turned to face him fully.
"The routes. The networks. The intelligence. They’re all controlled now by smaller factions—mafias, smugglers, mercenary outfits. But they’re not independent. Even the old chain of AZRAEL influence and command is under them. Protected like their prime asset!"
"Who are they?" Hemant’s eyes narrowed.
Reznov hesitated. That alone was an answer.
"No idea who , among us we call it The Secret Empire. No flag. No face. No homeland. Just influence"
He said finally.
"And their leader?"
"They call it The Oracle"
Hemant didn’t blink.
"No one knows if it’s a man or a woman. Or a group. Or a machine. But whoever it is… they’re good. Too good"
Reznov’s jaw tightened.
"They’ve been using your methods. Your patterns. Your chaos. That’s why Michael King never died in the stories. They kept him alive—used him as a myth"
"So that explains Michael King's legacy not dying!" Hemant’s voice dropped.
"Precisely......their tactics....it helped painting Michael King as a demon.....a monster that only terrorized....very few of us ever believed it......we believed they were ruining your legacy....but since you showed up....I think this means--"
"This means they wanted Michael King's attention.....and now they got it!" Hemant said.
Reznov stepped closer.
"But understand this—they are prepared for Michael King. They’ve studied him. Built contingencies around him , don't treat them lightly King!"
Hemant’s lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile.
"Don't worry , perhaps I have some contingencies of my own!" he said.
"You sure about this?" Reznov searched his face.
Hemant looked past him, toward the waiting aircraft, toward Mumbai, toward ghosts that refused to stay buried.
"They are expecting the same old Michael King" he said.
"But they have no idea about the man that was his blueprint!"
He met Reznov’s gaze.
"I’ll find the Oracle. I’ll burn the empire. And then I’ll put Michael King to rest—permanently"
Reznov watched him climb into the Cessna TTX, the door sealing shut with a hiss.
As the propeller spun up and the aircraft began to roll down the strip, Reznov felt it—that familiar, dreadful certainty.
Michael King had never spared those who hid in the shadows.
And whoever the Oracle was…they had just made the worst mistake of their existence.
(TO BE CONTD)
What have you become.....
Inside the control office, Thomas and his closest men barricaded themselves behind desks and consoles, guns shaking in their hands.
Outside, gunfire raged.
Then—one by one—it stopped.
Silence.
"I think… I think its over!" Thomas swallowed.
That’s when the window exploded inward. A severed head flew across the room, eyes wide in frozen terror. A grenade was stuffed in its mouth. The blast was immediate. Three men vanished in red mist.
Thomas was thrown across the room, screaming, blood pouring from his side. He dragged himself toward the exit, sobbing, broken, desperate.
The riverside doors blew open.
Smoke rolled in.
Michael King stepped through it, twin Glock 17s raised, suppressors whispering death. Each remaining man dropped before they could beg.
Only Thomas remained.
He collapsed at Michael’s feet.
"Please—please—it wasn’t me!" Thomas cried.
"It was Mr. Hunt! David Charles Hunt ordered it! It was all business!"
Michael looked down at him. Cold. Empty.
"When you are in the business of blood....everyone is expendable!" he said calmly.
Thomas looked up, hope flickering.
"Then let me live. I’ll testify. I’ll be your weapon against Hunt!"
Michael crouched close.
"I’m making you something better than a weapon Thomas!" he said quietly.
"I'm making you my message....to not just Hunt....but all of London!!!"
Thomas screamed.
The warehouse echoed once…Then went silent.
Fifteen minutes later, London law enforcement arrived in force—sirens, floodlights, chaos.
The Evantra was gone. Michael King was gone. But at the center of the warehouse, they found Thomas. Hanging on a wooden cross. Arms spread. Blood dried like scripture.
Every officer felt it—the chill, the certainty. This wasn’t a message. It was a proclamation. Michael King was back in London. And the underworld was crawling deeper to hid themselves from his wrath!
THAT EVENING AT MASIRAH ISLAND
The sea was black and endless when the cargo seaplane touched down near Masirah Island.
Its pontoons slapped the water hard, spraying salt into the night air as the massive aircraft slowed, engines growling low and tired. The island loomed ahead—barren, forgotten, perfect. No satellites lingered here longer than they had to. No questions were asked on Masirah.
Hemant Kumar stepped out into the warm wind, leather jacket gone now, replaced by something simpler. Functional. The kind of clothes worn by men who planned to disappear again.
He was escorted inland by armed locals who didn’t speak and didn’t need to. The path cut through sand and rock until lights appeared—dim, disciplined. A private airstrip carved out of nowhere.
Waiting at the far end of it stood a sleek white Cessna TTX, fueled, humming softly like it was impatient.
And beside it—Yuri Reznov.
Older now. Thicker through the shoulders. Hair touched with gray, but the eyes were the same—sharp, amused, and dangerous. He opened his arms slightly as Hemant approached.
"Long time no see, Michael" Reznov said with a crooked smile.
"Just getting my groove back!" Hemant stopped a few feet away.
Reznov laughed quietly.
"Well you've refined yourself quiet well" He looked him up and down.
"I heard what you did in Westminster. David Hunt is blowing a gasket"
Hemant didn’t respond.
Reznov nodded.
"Alteast it was long overdue for their macho bullshit. But you’ve rung a bell that doesn’t stop ringing"
"They killed Father Dominic...That bell was already ringing" Hemant said.
"Let’s talk business before the desert gets curious"
Reznov accepted that. He gestured toward the Cessna. They walked.
"What about the network chain you just restarted at Madagascar?" Reznov said.
"Same old thing we used to do.....just a different pawn!"Hemant shook his head.
Reznov raised an eyebrow.
"I made a deal with the Mehta family in Mumbai. Influential. Quiet. Their cargo ship—Kohinoor—will carry the first shipment to Madagascar. Clean papers. Clean crew"
"And from there?" Reznov asked.
"Your planes.......same purpose....same destination!" Hemant said.
"Those elites.....do they know what the shipment is?"
"They just know about the mercury....nothing more"
"Efficient. You always were" Reznov smiled.
"This isn’t about money"
Hemant’s expression hardened. Reznov stopped walking.
"You’re going after AZRAEL" he said.
"I am not chasing them....I am hunting them down....for good!"
"That won’t be easy" Reznov exhaled slowly.
"It never is easy" Hemant sighed.
"Not like that Michael" Reznov said quietly.
"This time it’s different. AZRAEL is… a relic. Most of its old members are retired. Some are rusting. Some hiding"
"So?" Hemant asked.
Reznov turned to face him fully.
"The routes. The networks. The intelligence. They’re all controlled now by smaller factions—mafias, smugglers, mercenary outfits. But they’re not independent. Even the old chain of AZRAEL influence and command is under them. Protected like their prime asset!"
"Who are they?" Hemant’s eyes narrowed.
Reznov hesitated. That alone was an answer.
"No idea who , among us we call it The Secret Empire. No flag. No face. No homeland. Just influence"
He said finally.
"And their leader?"
"They call it The Oracle"
Hemant didn’t blink.
"No one knows if it’s a man or a woman. Or a group. Or a machine. But whoever it is… they’re good. Too good"
Reznov’s jaw tightened.
"They’ve been using your methods. Your patterns. Your chaos. That’s why Michael King never died in the stories. They kept him alive—used him as a myth"
"So that explains Michael King's legacy not dying!" Hemant’s voice dropped.
"Precisely......their tactics....it helped painting Michael King as a demon.....a monster that only terrorized....very few of us ever believed it......we believed they were ruining your legacy....but since you showed up....I think this means--"
"This means they wanted Michael King's attention.....and now they got it!" Hemant said.
Reznov stepped closer.
"But understand this—they are prepared for Michael King. They’ve studied him. Built contingencies around him , don't treat them lightly King!"
Hemant’s lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile.
"Don't worry , perhaps I have some contingencies of my own!" he said.
"You sure about this?" Reznov searched his face.
Hemant looked past him, toward the waiting aircraft, toward Mumbai, toward ghosts that refused to stay buried.
"They are expecting the same old Michael King" he said.
"But they have no idea about the man that was his blueprint!"
He met Reznov’s gaze.
"I’ll find the Oracle. I’ll burn the empire. And then I’ll put Michael King to rest—permanently"
Reznov watched him climb into the Cessna TTX, the door sealing shut with a hiss.
As the propeller spun up and the aircraft began to roll down the strip, Reznov felt it—that familiar, dreadful certainty.
Michael King had never spared those who hid in the shadows.
And whoever the Oracle was…they had just made the worst mistake of their existence.
(TO BE CONTD)
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