CHAPTER 192: HOW DO YOU KNOW HIS NAME??

The room stank of fear now.

Not the loud kind.

The quiet kind. The kind that slithered under the skin.

Javier Mendoza’s shock slowly melted into a crooked grin. His scarred lips curled, showing teeth stained by years of cheap cigars and spilled blood.

He leaned forward on his seat, elbows on knees, eyes glittering with something dark.

"So Timothy trained his grandson. Interesting. This makes me think he may really be alive."

Miles’s smirk was thin and cold.

He understood something important in that instant.

They did not know.

They had no idea about Timothy Sterling’s disappearance.

They were guessing in the dark.

Miles’s voice dropped, calm and cutting.

"Tell me, Mendoza, why does the great El Puño Cartel leave its little cave and crawl all the way to Star Harbor? Does the cartel want to commit suicide?"

Santiago spit on the floor beside him, snarling.

Javier exhaled smoke and leaned back again.

"You know a lot about us. Too much. Who told you? Was it your grandfather? But unfortunately, kid, you will never see him. Because you stepped inside a killhouse."

Santiago laughed sharply behind him.

"I have never seen a man as stupid as you. Jumping straight into a lions den without thinking."

Miles cracked his neck slowly.

"Lions den? I see no lions here. More like a zoo. If you wish, I can put you all in cages forever."

Santiago’s rage boiled over.

"You think you are getting away tonight? Get him!"

The room erupted.

Men surged toward Miles like a human tide.

No hesitation.

No pattern.

Pure aggression.

But aggression was useless without aim.

The first man swung a glass bottle in a wide arc.

Miles stepped in instead of back.

His elbow slammed into the man’s throat.

A crunch.

A gasp.

The bottle fell.

Another lunged low with a knife.

Miles shifted his weight, caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted it backward until bone cracked like dry wood, and used the same arm to flip him over his shoulder onto the table.

The wood splintered under the impact.

Two came from the back, trying to grab him.

Miles ducked, grabbed one by his collar, spun, and kicked the other in the knee.

A sharp pop echoed and the man screamed.

He fell instantly.

The first one tried to punch Miles from behind.

Miles caught the fist without looking, pulled the man over his shoulder, and slammed him onto the floor.

The ground shook.

Another tried to stab him in the ribs.

Miles gripped the knife hand, pushed it sideways, and headbutted the man clean across the nose.

Blood burst out like a broken faucet.

Someone grabbed a chair and swung it down.

Miles turned, caught the legs mid air, ripped it out of the man’s hands, and cracked it against his ribs.

The man crashed into the wall, coughing blood.

A large brute charged like a bull, arms wide, intending to crush him.

Miles side stepped, caught him by the back of the neck, and rammed his head straight into the projector screen.

The screen ripped.

Sparks spat.

The room smelled of burnt plastic.

Three remained now.

They rushed together, trying to overwhelm him.

Miles moved like water.

A jab to the solar plexus for the first.

A spinning kick to the temple for the second.

A knee to the jaw for the third.

Bodies dropped one after another, sprawling across laptops, broken weapons, and scattered blueprints.

Silence collapsed over the room.

Broken breaths.

Groans.

The sound of blood dripping onto floorboards.

Javier Mendoza’s cigar had fallen from his mouth.

He stared at Miles, frozen.

Santiago, trembling but desperate, seized his chance.

His hand darted behind his back.

And he pulled out a pistol fitted with a suppressor.

He aimed it straight at Miles’s head, eyes wide with hate.

Miles stepped over the last unconscious cartel man and tilted his head at Santiago, who stood trembling near the projector with a gun in his hand. The light flickered behind him, casting shadows across his pale face.

Miles smirked first.

Then his expression softened with a mocking pity, as if he were consoling a child who failed a simple test.

"My dear Santiago," he said slowly, "I thought you were more intelligent than him."

Santiago blinked, confused.

"What are you talking about?"

Miles stepped closer, close enough for Santiago to feel the weight of his presence.

"I mean your father. Miguel Rivera. The old man had a better brain than you."

The words hit Santiago like a gunshot.

He froze completely.

His pupils shrank.

Shock paralyzed him.

"How... how do you know his name?" His voice cracked. "Who... who are you?"

Javier turned sharply between them.

"What is this? What do you mean? Miguel? How do you know that man?"

Miles chuckled lightly, as if the question amused him.

"Oh, you truly do not remember." He shrugged. "El Puño Cartel and I have crossed paths before. Let us say I burned down memories you still grieve for. You can recall the details inside the cage."

He raised his hand and clapped once.

The sound echoed like a command.

Instantly, the Sterling Security team burst through the windows and doors in perfect formation. Boots thudded across the floor. Laser sights dotted foreheads. Assault rifles clicked into position.

Everything happened in seconds.

Javier Mendoza’s eyes widened and he lifted his hands high in surrender.

Santiago dropped his gun immediately, his legs shaking.

He did not speak.

He did not resist.

He only remembered his father... and the rumors... and the whispered stories of a ghost that destroyed Miguel’s last fortress .

Now the ghost stood in front of him.

Miles folded his arms.

"Cage them. I will see them after the president leaves. I do not want any disturbance."

"Copy that," the lead agent answered.

The operatives swarmed the cartel men, zip tying their wrists, dragging them out one by one.

Javier tried to pull away.

"You have no idea who you are messing with," Javier snarled.

Miles raised a brow.

"Funny. You people always say that right before getting locked up."

Javier’s voice cracked with fear.

"You are making a mistake."

"Indeed," Miles replied. "Your mistake was coming to my city."

Santiago said nothing.

His eyes remained lowered, haunted by a ghost from his past that suddenly stood before him alive.

And smiling.

Soon, the men were dragged out the back door into armored transport vans waiting in the dark.

The house suddenly felt empty.

Silent.

The tension drained like air from a balloon.

Charles approached, helmet under his arm. His face was tight with concern.

"Boss," he said quietly, "that was dangerous."

Miles nodded.

"Most things worth doing are."

Charles hesitated.

"What were they doing here? And something you said... Treasure hunters? When did that become involved?"

Miles rolled his shoulders.

"I cannot believe they are part of that old syndicate. They might even be the weakest group among them."

Charles frowned.

"Treasure hunters? As in those old case files? That impossible network? You are telling me those men were a part of that?"

"Monica will send you the details," Miles said calmly.

Charles studied him, awe flickering behind his professionalism.

"You knew who they were the moment you stepped in, did you not? When did you cross paths with them before?"

Miles smiled faintly.

"Crossed paths? I burned down their entire base once."

Charles blinked.

Then he laughed softly in disbelief.

"You really have some amazing experiences, boss."

Miles shrugged modestly.

"Just nights I don’t like remembering."

He glanced at the neighborhood through the shattered window.

Several homes had lights turning on. Curtains shifted as sleepy residents peeked out.

Miles sighed.

"Looks like I made quite a noise."

Charles chuckled.

"Do not worry. We already handled everything. No one will know."

Miles patted his shoulder.

"I know. Good work tonight."

He stepped outside, breathing in the cold night air.

His car waited quietly under a streetlight.

He got in, leaned back, and closed his eyes briefly.

"One more day," he murmured to himself.

Then he drove toward Pearl Villa, headlights piercing the calm night.

Tomorrow was going to be long.

The president was arriving.

Danger was hovering.

And Miles needed to rest a bit.

....

Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains like warm gold dust, settling softly across Miles’s room. He was still drifting in that thin boundary between sleep and wakefulness when a rapid knock began pounding on his door.

It was not gentle.

It was enthusiastic.

It was Asher.

His voice rang through the wood.

"Big bro... wakie wakie."

Miles groaned softly and pushed himself upright, blinking away the blur. He glanced at the clock on the wall.

Six in the morning.

He exhaled a tired sigh and rubbed his face.

"Come on in. The door is open."

The door creaked, and a small round face peeked in, only half visible. Big curious eyes. Tousled hair. Pajamas slightly crooked. After confirming Miles was awake, Asher shuffled inside with tiny determined steps.

"Big bro, wake up, we need to get ready."

Miles reached out and gently ruffled his little brother’s messy hair.

"Where are we going this early? The president is still asleep, you know."

Asher blinked, genuinely surprised.

"Really?"

"Very much," Miles said, lips curving. "He is not standing outside waiting for us to say good morning."

Asher puffed his cheeks.

"Hope said we have to wake up early so we can meet him."

Miles leaned back on his pillow, amused.

"So Hope is awake too?"

Asher nodded, serious as a general.

"Yes."

Miles stretched his arms, letting the last of his sleepiness fade.

"Alright, if you two want to start the day early... how about we go do some exercise first?"

A tiny spark of excitement lit Asher’s eyes.

"Okay! Let’s go. First let me wear my track suit."

Miles chuckled.

"Alright, soldier. Go get ready."

Asher spun around and dashed out of the room, his feet pattering down the hallway with the energy of a morning storm.

Miles watched him go with a faint, warm smile, feeling the weight of the previous day settle on his shoulders... but somehow, with Asher’s enthusiasm bouncing through the villa, it did not feel heavy at all.

....

The morning news washed through Star Harbor like a rising tide, every channel buzzing with the same electric anticipation.

On the television, the anchor sat upright with a smile bright enough to match the breaking headlines.

"President has already landed in Star Harbor. The people of the city are already cheering up."

The broadcast shifted to live footage. Streets glimmered under the early sunlight, lined with barricades and patrolling security. Armoured vehicles rumbled across intersections, their heavy wheels echoing through the morning air. Police, military officials, and the Secret Service moved with synchronized urgency.

"The roads have heightened security," the anchor continued. "Armoured vehicles are roaming throughout the city, and multiple checkpoints have been activated."

More footage appeared. Helicopters hovering. Long queues of citizens pressed behind barriers with eager faces and small flags.

"It is now official that Mr. President will be visiting Sterling Enterprises at the Cinder Square today at eleven. After that, there will be a press conference at the City Hall."

The camera zoomed back to the anchor, whose eyes shone with excitement.

"Keep watching, Sterling Media."

The screen faded to a promotional clip, and the city outside prepared itself for this important day.