The Chosen Heir

Chapter 22: The Ambush

The cab pulled up at the entrance of an old park, the kind that seemed abandoned by both children and the city. The driver glanced into the rearview mirror with uneasy eyes.

“You sure this the place, boss?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

Ash stared through the window. The park was swallowed in darkness. Rusted swings creaked faintly with the night breeze, weeds choked the benches, and the cracked pavement shone slick under the dim moonlight. Even the streetlight at the corner had long since died, leaving the place a pocket of shadows.

“Yeah,” Ash said, more to himself than the driver. “This is it.”

The driver sniffed, shook his head, and muttered, “Nothing good happens in places like this after dark.”

Ash forced a weak smile, “Story of my life.” He shoved a couple of bills into his hand, and stepped out before he lost his nerves. The cab sped away, its taillights the last flicker of safety vanishing into the dark.

Silence.

Ash shoved his hands in his pockets, his heart hammering. His phone buzzed. 12 missed calls. 9 unread messages.

Tessa: Where are you?

Tessa: Pick up, please. Where are you?

Tessa: Mike, I’m scared. Just come home.

His chest tightened. He wanted to call, to explain, to tell her he’d fix everything soon. But how could he? He wasn’t here by accident, he was here because of that mysterious text promising a way out of his debts.

He let the phone slip back into his pocket. His eyes darted around the park. No one. Just the hum of crickets and the faint rustle of trees.

Then...

A sound. A crunch of gravel.

Ash's head snapped up. From the shadows, two figures emerged. Their steps echoed, slow, deliberate.

One was tall, gaunt, with a scar carving a cruel line across his cheek. The other was shorter, thick-built, tattoos crawling up his neck. Both wore hoodies that masked most of their faces.

Ash’s stomach dropped.

“Uh… you the guys I’m supposed to meet for the cash?” His voice cracked.

The scarred one smirked. “Yeah. We’re the guys.”

Something about his tone made Ash’s blood run cold.

Before he could react, the stocky one lunged forward and slammed a fist into Ash's gut. The air whooshed out of his lungs. He bent double, gasping, and another blow cracked against his jaw, sending him sprawling to the pavement.

“What the hell!” he choked.

The scarred man’s boot came down hard into his ribs. Pain exploded in his side.

“This isn't a meeting,” the man sneered. “This is a message.”

Ash writhed, clutching his ribs. “A message? From who? I don’t—”

A savage kick silenced him. His vision swam, his ears ringing. He tasted blood, hot and metallic.

The stocky one grabbed his collar and yanked him upright. His breath stank of cigarettes as he growled into Ash's face.

“You listening? Good. Tell your wife it’s over. You’re gonna divorce her. Walk away clean. Or next time, we won’t stop.”

Ash blinked, dazed. “Divorce…?”

The man slammed him back down, his head cracking against the pavement. Stars exploded in his vision.

“You deaf?” the scarred one barked. “You leave her. You sign the papers. You disappear. Or you’ll disappear in a body bag.”

Another kick landed square in his chest. Ash coughed violently, spitting red. He tried to crawl away, but the stocky one’s boot pressed against his neck, pinning him to the ground.

“This is mercy,” the man hissed. “Next time, it’s your funeral.”

The world narrowed into fragments, boots, fists, blows raining down without rhythm, each one tearing his body closer to the edge. His ribs screamed, his breath rattled. Somewhere distant, he heard laughter.

Then silence.

The two men stood over him, breathing hard.

“Think he’ll remember?” the scarred one asked.

“He’ll remember,” the other said. “And if he doesn’t, his wife will.”

They spat on him, turned, and melted back into the shadows.

Ash lay broken on the pavement, pain carving through every nerve. The night pressed in heavy and cold. He tried to move, but his body refused.

Divorce her… leave her… or else.

Their words echoed in his skull, cruel and relentless. He thought of Tessa — her tear-streaked face, her worried texts, her warmth. Now someone wanted her ripped away from him.

His vision blurred. Blackness crowded his edges. He fought against it, dragging one trembling hand toward his pocket. His phone.

It slipped once, twice, before he managed to press the screen. By instinct, his thumb redialed the last number.

The line rang. Once. Twice.

Then, her voice.

“Ash? Ash, where are you? Please, talk to me!”

His throat tightened. Blood bubbled at his lips as he forced sound out.

“Tessa…” His voice was raw, almost unrecognizable. “Everything… will be fine.”

The phone slipped from his hand. His eyes rolled back. Darkness swallowed him whole.