CHAPTER 173: BASIL!!

Flashback - One year ago- Silverline City

Silverline City—

the land where old tradition breathes in every stone, and modern life hums beneath it like a pulse.

A place where the dawn smells of damp soil and ripe fruit, and the evening streets glow with warm lantern lights that never lose their charm.

Fields stretch endlessly around it—

rows of vegetables, golden grains dancing with the wind, vineyards rolling over gentle hills.

The grapes here are whispered about in other cities—sweet, fragrant, kissed by soft valley sunlight.

Their pride? Silverline Vine.

A drink that tastes like heritage and earth and patience.

Yet this city doesn’t sleep early.

Once the sun dips behind the hills, the other face wakes up—

bars tucked between cobblestone alleys, music floating from club doors, laughter drifting into the cool night air.

Tradition in the morning, celebration by night.

And between that quiet countryside heart and the vibrant nightly glow, the city stands proud—

sunset towers shining with golden glass,

clean paved boulevards,

a smooth subway line humming through the underground,

bridges arching over calm water,

all blending softness with concrete, nature with neon.

Silverline is the kind of place that looks peaceful...

but carries too many stories under its soil.

Rain drummed on neon signs outside, the streets slick and glowing. Inside the bar, heat and music pulsed like a heartbeat. Sweat, perfume, spilled alcohol—mixing into a wild, dizzying scent. The kind of night where secrets hide in shadows and chaos feels like freedom.

At the far counter, a man leaned quietly, untouched by the noise.

Black leather jacket.

Gloves still on.

Water in his hand instead of whiskey.

Eyes sharp, observing—never drifting, never careless.

Ghost. Hidden in plain sight.

His gaze kept landing on one figure on the dance floor—

Frank.

Local biker gang muscle. Scar across his cheek.

Laughing too loud, hands around two girls like the world belonged to him.

Ghost tracked every gesture, every person who drifted too close.

Silent hunter waiting for the right moment.

Then—

someone stepped into his line of sight, blocking the view like an accidental curtain.

A woman.

Young, elegant in a way wealth never needed to announce.

Dress in midnight silk, hair perfectly framed around sharp curious eyes.

Not loud like the room—she carried stillness. Confidence.

And she smelled like expensive perfume and rain from outside.

She leaned casually against the counter.

"I’ve never seen you here," she said, voice smooth with amusement. "New to the city?"

Ghost didn’t look at her at first. "Just on vacation."

She slid a little closer, noting the glass of water.

"You came to the wrong place if you’re only going to drink that."

"I’m not in the mood to drink." His tone remained flat, controlled.

She followed his eyes, noticed they kept twitching past her shoulder.

"You keep looking behind me," she teased lightly. "Who are you watching?"

Ghost finally met her gaze—cold, composed. "Me? No one."

She didn’t buy it. But she smiled anyway.

"You want to join their club?" She nodded toward the bikers. "If you do, I know them. I can help."

That actually made him look at her properly—assessing.

She noticed the shift and grinned.

"By the way, I’m Kara."

He paused. Then lied with a straight face:

"Allen."

"Allen," she repeated, as if testing the name.

"Where are you from?"

"Mount West City."

Her brows lifted, impressed.

"So you’re a neighbor."

She tapped her fingers on the counter like she wasn’t just talking to a stranger—but picking one apart.

And Ghost realized—

she wasn’t here by accident either.

The dance floor roared behind them.

But the real game had just started.

Ghost glanced past her shoulder—Frank and two bikers were slipping toward the exit.

With a silent signal—a tiny lift of his chin—one of his own operatives peeled off from the bar and followed them out into the rain-drenched street. Smooth. Quiet.

Only then Ghost’s eyes returned to Kara.

"Kara, was it?"

A knowing smile tugged at her lips. "I knew your mind was somewhere else."

"My bad," he said, tone low, apologetic only on the surface. "Let me buy you a drink."

He raised a hand.

"Special for the lady," he told the bartender.

Kara chuckled. "I’m impressed, Allen. But you’re the guest—I should buy you a drink instead."

"I’m not drinking anyway."

Clear voice. No hesitation.

She studied him—like reading a stranger’s silence was a hobby.

"There are so many men dying to be part of that club," she nodded toward the door where the bikers had left. "You look like more than just a rider though."

"Just bored," Ghost lied smoothly. "Thought I’d take a vacation. I like bikes. And I heard the Silverline club is invite-only."

"Trust me," Kara said, leaning closer like she was sharing a secret. "I don’t like those men. They play dirty. You really want in?"

Ghost gave a relaxed shrug.

"I think it’s cool. I can go back home anytime."

Kara’s eyes sharpened. "Can you? Things like that don’t let you go easily."

Ghost smirked, brief and unreadable.

"I’ll be fine."

The bartender set the drink down.

A soft clink of glass on wood.

Kara lifted hers.

"Well then, I like your confidence, Allen. How about this—let’s hang out tomorrow. I’ll get you an invite."

Ghost widened his eyes just enough to seem pleasantly surprised.

"Really? How?"

"I have a friend," she answered, mysterious but casual. "Simple."

A slow grin touched his lips.

"That works for me. Benefits on both sides."

"Good." Kara raised her glass. "Cheers, Allen."

Ghost lifted his water like champagne.

"Cheers."

Two glasses touched.

Two secrets clinked in the noise.

And in that moment—neither knew the other was lying.

Present.

Inside the underground operations room, the air felt tight—focused, electric.

Rows of monitors glowed pale blue. Keyboards clicked in quiet rhythm, agents leaning forward, headsets on, eyes sharp.

On the command platform, Charles stood stiff and ready, a digital pointer in his hand. On the main screen behind him, files and live surveillance footage flicked across—Silverline City, fields, old buildings, crowds.

In the corner of the screen, Monica appeared on a secure feed from Mount West—headset, sharp eyes, ready to take heads off if needed.

Charles cleared his throat.

"This is the latest information we just received from Boss. Listen up."

The room fell from tapping noise to silence.

A slide changed—an elderly man, eyes like worn steel, face lined from sun and time, standing in a field with farmers behind him.

"This is Basil Jefferson," Charles continued. "Leader of the Farmer’s Association in Silverline City. Been in control for three decades. Father—Jefferson Senior—was murdered by corrupt city officials long ago. Basil took over after and rebuilt the association into one of the most influential grassroots forces in the region."

A quiet murmur travelled through one side of the room—respect mixed with suspicion.

"He has enough pull to shake city politics. The previous mayoral resignation? His doing. And according to internal chatter, he’s planning to run for mayor next year."

A new screen lit up—two men holding signs in a crowd, faces stern, eyes trained rather than tired. Images zoomed in—protests, rallies, farmland inspections, foreign trade visits.

"These two here," Charles tapped the photo. "No confirmed identities yet. But they appear in multiple public events with him. They’re not farmers. Posture, muscle formation, gait—we’re looking at trained individuals."

A still frame appeared—this morning, the same two men at the compound gate, dropping Kyle off like a parcel.

"They are the ones who delivered Kyle Sterling to our door today. Chester Sterling remains missing. Meaning someone has him, or he escaped through support. Either way, this group isn’t random."

Monica’s voice came in crisp through the speakers.

"Tracking networks suggest this wasn’t a panic move. It was planned. Organized. That’s not amateur farmer rebellion—we’re dealing with a command structure."

Agents exchanged looks. Someone exhaled quietly.

Charles nodded.

"We need to find out who these men are, and whether Basil Jefferson is truly the one pulling strings, or just a face. We already dispatched field operatives in Silverline City. All intel flow is live."

Mouse clicks erupted again. Maps opened. Databases scrolled.

The room shifted from listening to execution mode instantly, like gears locking into motion.

Through the thick glass wall, the whole scene looked like a high-level federal war room—but this wasn’t the government.

This was Miles’ Sterling network preparing for a hunt.

Silverline City — Night

Inside a dimly lit private room at one of Silverline’s oldest bars, the air smelled of aged oak and vintage wine. Frames of old harvest festivals and political rallies hung on wood-paneled walls.

Basil Jefferson, weathered and calm, sat at the head of the table. A bottle of his own Silverline Reserve sat half-poured between crystal glasses. The VIPs around him—businessmen and local elites—leaned forward with respect, almost fear.

One businessman cleared his throat.

"Mr. Jefferson, we’ve developed a new plan for this year’s harvest—"

Before he could finish, a sharp knock echoed on the door.

Basil didn’t even look surprised.

"Come in."

A man in modest clothes but soldier-straight posture entered, bowed slightly.

"Boss, there is something important you need to know."

Basil’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained steady.

"Gentlemen, will you excuse me for a moment?"

The VIPs rose instantly—no hesitation, no complaints. They gathered their files and stepped out, quiet and obedient, leaving Basil alone with the messenger and the hum of bass from the bar outside.

The door shut gently behind them.