Rise Of Michael Jordan

Chapter 4

Milton Carroway’s voice rolled out like distant thunder.

“It’s been a while, Kael.”

He gestured toward a leather chair across from his massive desk. “Sit.”

I didn’t say a word, just walked over and lowered myself into the seat. The woman from earlier glided in, carrying a silver tray. Hawthrone, stood to Milton’s right, hands clasped in front of him like a statue, eyes tracking my every move.

The woman leaned in, filling my cup with steaming tea. She winked as the liquid swirled, but I looked away. No distractions. Not here.

Milton’s deep voice filled the room again.

“I must apologize,” he said smoothly. “I haven’t come to see you since your release from prison. I’ve been… occupied. The upcoming election, you understand. After serving at the federal level, I’ve returned to my hometown. I want to serve as mayor now.”

His gaze softened, like a man sharing old war stories.

“The government never forgets a sacrifice, Kael. I remain… regretful for what happened.”

I cut him off.

“Is that why you tried to silence all of us? Is that why you’re still after me, even after I walked out of that cell?”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

My hand slipped into my jacket, fingers brushing cool brass. I placed the object on the desk between us.

A bullet.

“This,” I said, tapping the round with my fingertip, “is from an Accipiter M-92 sniper rifle. Custom-forged, depleted uranium core. It can cut through two inches of reinforced steel at eighteen hundred meters.”

I leaned back slightly, letting my words sink in.

“It’s scarce. It’s expensive. The kind of ammunition only the presidency can authorize — and even then, only for special operations. Not for street work.”

I pushed the bullet toward him. “And yet, it found me.”

Milton removed his spectacles, folding them with deliberate care. His eyes were calm.

“I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“That same bullet,” I said, my voice low, “almost took my head off a few nights ago. My brother too. No mafia, no mercenaries, no back-alley gunsmiths have access to anything like this. Unless it came from here.”

I held his gaze.

“So tell me, Milton… why are you trying to kill me?”

Milton smiled. Slow. Controlled. The kind of smile you give when you know more than you’re willing to say.

Then he rose from his chair.

My eyes followed him as he crossed the room to a heavy, dark oak drawer. Hawkthorne didn’t move an inch, but I could feel his stare tightening like a vise.

Every muscle in my body coiled.

Without making it obvious, my fingers slid over the armrest until they found the pen beside me. I wrapped my hand around it, hiding the movement with the slow shift of my coat. If Milton went for a gun instead of papers, I’d have a weapon—crude, but enough to make the first move.

He opened the drawer. My grip on the pen tightened.

Then he turned back, holding a thick, weathered file. No gun.

Milton returned to the desk, dropped the file onto the polished wood with a dull slap, and slid it toward me. The man didn’t sit—just stood there, letting me open it.

Inside were photographs. High-resolution. Brutal.

A man slumped against a wall, a neat hole drilled dead center in his forehead.

Another lying on cracked pavement, his throat a red ruin.

A third sprawled across a table, chest punched through in three places.

Milton’s voice was low, deliberate.

“A month ago, the Bavarra Republics presidential house received a message. It was reported quietly through the military channels. There had been a robbery—an armed strike on one of their military depots. Ammunition stolen. High-grade. The kind we both know can’t end up in civilian hands.”

He paused, letting his words sink in.

“They couldn’t announce it, of course. Would have caused panic in the streets. Shattered the idea of security. But… a week later, these people turned up dead. Exactly as you see in those photos.”

He tapped the file once.

“Their names aren’t important. What matters is that every single one of them had military ties. And now…” He glanced toward Hawkthorne, then back to me. “Even the Black Spire is trying to get to the truth of the issue.”

I looked up from the photos, narrowing my eyes.

“Malik Radwan,” I said. “The te**ist?”

Milton’s smile returned, but this time it was thin.

“The Black Spire is trying to find out.”

I closed the file and stood, the chair’s legs scraping against the floor.

“Fine.”

Milton’s expression softened—just a fraction.

“About your comrades…” he said slowly, his deep voice carrying that heavy politician’s gravity. “On behalf of the government… I’m sorry. I will carry the weight of it to my grave.”

I stared straight into his eyes.

“You’re not in a position to ask me for forgiveness,” I said, my voice low but hard enough to cut through the air. “Wait until the day you come face to face with the people who truly deserve that apology. Then you can make one.”

I leaned forward, not breaking eye contact.

“And pray you end up in heaven… so you can give it to them yourself.”

The silence between us thickened, the kind that presses against your ribs.

I pushed back my chair and walked toward him.

Hawkthorne’s arm shot out to block me, but before I could even react, Milton’s voice cut through.

“Stand down, Hawkthorne.”

Reluctantly, the big man withdrew, though his glare could have cracked stone.

Milton gave me a faint, knowing smile.

“I’ve always admired your military skill, Kael. Even if I blindfolded you, tied your hands, and gave Hawthorne thirty men… you’d still walk out alive. He knows it too.”

Hawkthorne stepped back another pace, his jaw tight, the insult digging deep.

I reached into my coat, pulled out the sniper round, and set it on the desk with a sharp metallic click.

“I’ll come back later,” I said flatly.

Then I turned and walked out without another word.

The heavy gates of the Black Spire closed behind me with a deep metallic thud, like the building was sealing me out for good.

The guards’ eyes trailed me as I walked down the stone path, their stares heavy, suspicious.

I should have felt relief. I didn’t.

Mark’s face came to mind.

Mark—my brother-in-arms, my loyal friend.

The man who’d once carried me out of gunfire without a second thought… reduced now to a wheelchair.

The day I was arrested, his car “accidentally” collided with a truck on the highway.

Two crushed legs. Gone in a heartbeat.

No accident. I could smell Milton’s hand in it. A message. A warning.

I thought of visiting him, just to say *hello*, to let him know I hadn’t forgotten. But walking in empty-handed felt wrong. I needed to show up with something—something worth his time. Not just my hollow words.

I sighed and turned my steps toward Delacroix Company. Back to the janitor’s closet. Back to blending in. Maybe in a few days, I’d have something for Mark.

I’d barely taken a step when the air shifted.

*Whssh!*

That faint whistle—metal slicing through wind. Instinct screamed before my brain caught up.

I dropped my weight, twisting sideways.

A knife sang past my cheek, embedding deep into the fender of a parked car. The blade vibrated with the force, humming like it was alive.

I straightened, eyes narrowing at the source.

She stepped out from behind a pillar—the woman from earlier.

Jessica.

She wore that same faint smile, as if she’d just asked me to dance instead of throwing steel at my head.

I walked toward her slowly, pointing at the knife lodged in the car. “You want to explain why you decided to do this?”

Her smile tilted into something sharper. “You talk too much. Like a parrot. Why don’t you *show* me what you’ve got instead?”

Her hand slipped into her jacket—another flash of silver.

This time she lunged, no warning. The blade aimed straight for my ribs.

I caught her wrist mid-strike, twisting it just enough to redirect the blade past me. She flowed with the momentum, spinning low, trying to sweep my legs.

I jumped back, but she was already up, her second knife whistling toward my throat.

Too close. I tilted my head, felt the cold wind of steel kiss my ear. My elbow snapped forward, striking her arm just below the shoulder. She grunted, losing her angle, and I stepped in, closing the distance before she could recover.

A feint to the left—she fell for it. My other hand pinned her knife arm to the wall. A flick of my wrist, and one of her own blades was under her chin, the point grazing her skin.

Her breath hitched. The confidence in her eyes faltered, just for a second.

“Now,” I said quietly, my voice steady but edged with steel, “give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you.”

Instead of fear, she smiled—slow, deliberate.

“Was it Milton?” I pressed, eyes locked on hers. “Did he send you?”

“You’re strong,” she murmured instead, her voice like silk sliding over glass.

I stepped back, letting the blade drop from her throat.

She straightened her clothes, smoothing the creases with elegant precision. That same smug smile lingered as if I hadn’t just had her seconds from bleeding out.

“I just came to confirm something,” she said, tone almost playful. “And I’ve confirmed it. I can leave now.”

She turned halfway, glancing at me over her shoulder. “Jessica,” she said, her name dripping from her lips like a dare. “Don’t forget it.”

I watched her walk away without looking back, her heels clicking against the pavement until she melted into the street.

Then I turned and headed back toward Delacroix Company.

__________

The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed faintly as I walked back toward my dorm. I was halfway to my door when I heard a scream.

"AHHHHHHHH!"

It was so sharp and so close.

I froze mid-step; the voice went silent

Then again, "AHHHHHHHH:" This time louder, desperate, from the room adjacent to mine.

I turned just as the door burst open and a woman bolted out, wild-eyed, her hair disheveled, her voice slicing the hallway.

“Help! Please!”

Before I could even open my mouth, she slammed into me, pushing me back toward her room. Her fingers dug into my shoulder, sharp enough to make me wince as we stumbled inside.

“What’s going on?” I demanded, scanning the dim space for the threat.

She pointed, trembling. “O-over there… under the table.”

I followed her finger, every muscle coiled, expecting a knife, a gun, something.

Instead…

A mosquito.

Just one. Buzzing lazily, like it had no idea it was about to cause a full-blown panic attack.

The woman screamed again, clutching at my arm.

“…Right,” I muttered, rubbing my temple. “It’s fine. I’ll… take care of it.”

I spotted a stick propped beside the bed and picked it up, moving in slow, deliberate steps toward the insect.

That’s when it happened.

Something brown and fast darted out from under the bed—

THUMP!

A rat. Big enough to have its own mortgage.

The woman’s scream hit a new octave as she shoved me with surprising strength. We both went down hard, my back smacking the floor. My shirt tore at the shoulder seam, fabric ripping open and baring my chest.

Before I could process it, she was on top of me, her knees on either side, breathing fast and ragged, eyes locked on the corner like she expected the mosquito to come for round two.

“It’s fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, my hands hovering awkwardly in the air because I had no idea where to put them. “It’s just a rat.”

I coughed, partly from the impact, partly to break the… situation.

She blinked down, realizing our position. Color rushed to her face as she scrambled off me. “Oh my god, I’m sorry! I—I’m just… scared of mosquitoes. And rats.”

“Normal,” I said with a small shrug, sitting up.

Her eyes lingered a second too long before she spoke. “You’re the new worker, right? The one in the opposite room?”

“That’s me.”

She smiled faintly. “Oh. You’re… really handsome.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Thanks… I guess.”

“If you ever have another rodent problem,” I said, standing and brushing off my pants, “I’ll help.”

She smiled wider. “Of course.”

I turned toward the door, but she called out quickly, “you can call me Mia! Don’t forget it.”

“No problem. Goodnight, Mia.”

She smiled, closing her door softly behind her.

I exhaled, finally turning toward my own room.

But the second I touched the knob—my stomach tightened.

The door was slightly ajar.

I never leave it unlocked.

The hall was empty, everywhere was quiet. I scanned the corridor, every sense sharpened, before pushing the door open.

I stepped in slowly.

That’s when something whistled through the darkness, it was so fast and vicious.

A rope, weighted at the end with a spinning blade, snapped toward my head.

My hand shot up, catching the rope inches from my face. The blade spun in my palm, the edge scraping my glove just enough to spark. I twisted, yanking hard. The attacker stumbled forward from the shadows—

And that’s when I saw them.

Four men in black masks, Combat boots. Knives, batons.

I let the rope drop to the floor, my stance lowering.

“Alright,” I said, voice low and steady. “Who sent you?”