Read Novel Full Chapter 559: What Would You Do, Old Man?
Chapter 559: What Would You Do, Old Man?
"A garden, huh?"
A faint, knowing smirk touched the corner of Alex’s mouth.
It made complete sense. A luxury hotel crawling with people and blanketed in security cameras was no place for violence — and an even worse place for a man desperate to keep his true capabilities buried. But an isolated, open-air garden hanging over a dark cliffside?
’What are you up to, old man?’ Alex mused, his eyes narrowing with dark amusement. ’Don’t tell me you’re planning to bury every single one of them out there...’
He tilted his chin toward the end of the hall, gesturing for Naomi to move.
"Let’s go," Alex said, his tone dropping into a low, anticipatory murmur. "Lead the way."
"Huh? Yes—right," Naomi blinked, startled out of her spiraling thoughts. She tightened her jaw, quickly masking the cracks in her composure, and turned on her heel to lead the way down the corridor.
They cut through the service access door at the end of the hall, bypassing the staff elevator and heading down the narrow utility ramp that led to the hotel’s rear exterior.
The heavy push-bar door opened outward, and the stagnant, conditioned air of the hotel broke against a sharp evening draft rising off the cliffside.
The muffled thump of the club’s bass died behind them, swallowed by the vast hush of early night... the distant roar of evening traffic down in the valley and the dry clatter of wind through ornamental palms. True dark had only just settled over the grounds, casting long, clean shadows across the crushed slate pathways, while the city below glittered sharp and cold against the black sky.
The garden was massive, an engineered sanctuary of imported ferns, towering glass pavilions, and narrow stone bridges winding toward the dark.
Fifty yards out, where the manicured path broke against the sheer drop of the terrace overlook, stood a silhouette.
It was Raymond Cole.
The old man leaned comfortably against the cold stone balustrade, his dark overcoat undone, a heavy tumbler balanced lazily in his right hand.
He didn’t look like a marked man on the run. He looked like someone thoroughly enjoying the brisk night air, gazing out over the glowing grid of the city and the distant swarm of headlights below with detached amusement.
A few paces behind him, sitting casually at a small wrought-iron patio table, was Naomi’s husband.
He had an open bottle between his elbows, methodically preparing another glass in the dim terrace lighting, looking entirely at ease.
A shuddering breath escaped Naomi’s lips. The knot that had been twisting her chest since the lounge abruptly snapped loose.
"Thank God," she whispered, turning to Alex with an exhale of sheer relief. "Nothing happened. They’re alright."
She took half a step out onto the gravel, parting her lips to call out to them.
An arm like forged iron slammed across her chest.
Before she could draw breath to yell, Alex gripped her shoulder and yanked her backward with effortless, brutal efficiency, dragging her deep into the black shadows beneath an overgrown wisteria trellis. He pinned her against the stone pillar, his fingers digging into the meat of her arm hard enough to leave deep bruises beneath the silk.
"What—what are you doing?" she hissed in frantic confusion, trying to twist out of his hold.
"Wait," he breathed, the word barely a vibration against her ear.
Alex didn’t look toward the cliff. His free hand came up, his index finger gesturing back toward the heavy service door they had just stepped out of.
Naomi followed his line of sight, the air freezing in her lungs.
The metal door had pushed open again, held wide on oiled hinges.
A group of seven or eight men slipped out through the door, moving with the practiced rhythm of a coordinated hit squad. There was no hesitation... just silent, deliberate steps on the wet slate. Dark jackets masked the heavy steel holstered at their waists, their eyes locked forward as they spread out in a loose arc, bracketing the walkway and boxing the terrace in.
Leading the pack was the very man Cole had humiliated on the dance floor.
His tailored jacket was gone, his sleeves rolled up, and his face twisted into a venomous sneer. The humiliation he had swallowed in the lounge burned in his eyes — he hadn’t tucked his tail and run. He had just gone to gather his killers.
Naomi felt the cold sweat prick the back of her neck.
As an operative, she recognized the rhythm of a kill team instantly... and the suffocating pressure rolling off those men made the air in her lungs feel thin.
These weren’t hired bouncers or street thugs picked up for pocket change. The measured spacing between their strides, the practiced discipline in their shoulders, the flat, dead focus in their eyes... not a single one of them was any less lethal than she was. And there were eight of them, converging on two men with their backs turned.
Her husband was still calmly pouring a drink. Cole was still leaning on the stone, looking out over the city. Sitting ducks.
She turned toward Alex, her pulse hammering against her ribs like a trapped animal.
"They’re going to slaughter them," she hissed under her breath, her fingers twitching frantically toward her concealed holster. "We have to move, we have to—"
"Stay still," Alex cut in.
His voice didn’t rise above a whisper, but it fell between them like a sheet of ice. There was no urgency in his posture, no hint of adrenaline... only a slow, cruel amusement that made her blood run colder than the wind off the cliff.
"Watch closely," Alex murmured, a razor-thin smile curling his lips. "You’re about to witness something very interesting."
He leaned his shoulder against the heavy wood of the trellis, folding his arms as his dark eyes tracked the closing circle of killers, before settling back onto Raymond Cole’s solitary silhouette.
’What are you going to do, old man?’ Alex mused, anticipation humming beneath his ribs.
Blow years of careful cover just to swat away an arrogant brat’s temper tantrum? Or let yourself get beaten into the dirt just to keep up the lie?