CHAPTER 187: ADAM!!

Sterling Security Base — Indoor Shooting Range

Concrete walls. Powder-burnt air.

A dozen shredded target sheets fluttered like dead leaves.

Miles stood at the center lane, jaw locked, eyes empty, body moving with mechanical precision.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Another magazine emptied.

Another target obliterated.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Agents at the back watched silently — whispers slipping between their shock and concern.

"Boss is on another level today..."

"He emptied five mags without pausing."

"He’s venting something... just let him."

Shell casings rolled across the floor in a metallic storm.

Miles inserted another mag, racked the slide, took aim—

A familiar, steady voice cut through the haze.

"Boss."

Charles stepped forward, expression calm but eyes sharp with understanding.

He held out a cold bottle of water.

Miles took it without a word.

He swallowed half in one go, then tilted his head and poured the rest over himself.

Water traced down his face and neck — cooling everything except the fire in his eyes.

Charles watched him for a moment.

"You should rest a little, boss. It’s the weekend. Monday will be a busy day for you."

Miles smirked faintly, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

"I’m fine. I was just oiling my hands back."

Charles chuckled.

"Oiling your hands? Boss... at this point you’re preparing for war."

Miles locked the firearm on the table.

"Wars can come anytime, Charles.

It’s better to be prepared — don’t you think?"

Charles straightened.

"That’s right.

And just so you know... we’re all ready to fight any war with you, boss."

Miles glanced at him, a quiet sincerity in his gaze.

"I appreciate it."

He picked up a towel, dried his hands, then asked—

"How’s Kyle doing?"

Charles’s expression darkened.

"No improvement.

He’s still in the mental asylum.

Being treated. But..."

He hesitated.

Miles looked at him.

"Ask."

Charles exhaled slowly.

"Boss... shouldn’t we just kill him?

He’s the one who killed your father.

Keeping him alive — isn’t it pointless suffering?"

Miles’s expression didn’t change.

He spoke quietly.

Cold.

Measured.

"Killing him now, in the state he is...

would be mercy.

And mercy is something he does not deserve."

Charles swallowed.

Miles continued.

"Death is easy, Charles.

A coward’s escape.

But living with your own collapsed mind?

That’s a suffering even hell doesn’t offer."

He set the gun aside, eyes distant.

"And more importantly...

I don’t know what my mother would want.

Asking her would disturb her peace — and I won’t do that.

So Kyle’s future... is uncertain.

But the decision..."

His eyes hardened.

"...belongs to me."

Charles bowed his head respectfully.

"I understand, boss."

Miles stepped toward the exit.

"Everything ready for Monday?"

Charles straightened again, professional demeanor returning.

"Yes, boss.

We coordinated with the Secret Service.

Security, checkpoints, protocols — everything is ready."

Miles gave a single nod.

"Good."

Then he walked out —

leaving behind shattered targets, drifting smoke, and a room full of operatives who knew one thing:

Their boss was preparing for more than a presidential visit.

....

Miles switched lanes smoothly and eased his car toward the roadside.

The black sedan behind him copied the motion perfectly — too perfectly.

He checked the mirror.

License plate: local. But the way it tailed him... intentional.

Miles stopped.

The sedan stopped.

The driver stepped out — tall, clean-cut, crisp black suit, tie tight, posture military straight. Dark sunglasses. Sharp jawline. Hair trimmed to regulation.

Miles narrowed his eyes, recognition blooming.

"Adam...?"

The man slid off his sunglasses with two fingers, revealing the same cold, hawk-sharp eyes from years ago.

A smirk tugged his lips.

"Long time no see... Ghost."

Miles exhaled — half disbelief, half annoyance.

"Don’t tell me—"

"Yes," Adam cut in, tapping the temple of his sunglasses like flashing a badge, "I joined the Secret Service."

Miles let out a soft snort.

"I expected this from you."

Adam clicked his tongue.

"Hey, don’t start digging up our past. I only stalked you today because I missed your pretty face."

Miles raised a brow.

Adam chuckled.

"Relax. Let’s grab lunch. We’ll talk there... Ghost."

Miles responded sharply,

"It’s Miles."

Adam blinked.

"Hm?"

"My name. It’s Miles."

A second of silence — then Adam nodded slowly.

"Right... Miles. I know. I’m in charge of the President’s security for Monday, so I basically know everything that moves within a mile of your office."

Miles sighed.

Of course.

"Fine. Let’s go to The Atelier."

Adam’s eyes brightened just a bit.

"Yes. I’ve never tasted the food there. Always wanted to."

Miles smirked.

"You’ll like it."

"Let’s go."

They returned to their cars — both engines starting almost in sync — and drove toward The Atelier.

As the wind rushed by, memories resurfaced...

Adam — former special forces.

Operated in silent, high-risk black ops under direct Presidential orders.

Worked with Graveyard on unofficial missions.

Worked beside Ghost more than once.

A man who never broke under pressure.

Now he was here, in Miles’s city.

Silverline City — Basil’s Farmhouse

The quiet snip of steel echoed through the yard as Basil trimmed the overgrown shrubs. His hands were steady, practiced, almost peaceful.

Then his phone buzzed.

He wiped his palm on his vest before answering.

"What is it?"

A man’s tense voice came through the line.

"Clown was compromised."

Basil froze for half a heartbeat — then resumed cutting a branch.

"Who?"

"It seems... he was taken to Star Harbor."

The shears stopped this time.

Basil lifted his gaze slightly, eyes narrowing.

"...So. It was him."

"Most likely."

Basil exhaled a long, tired breath, as if he’d expected this someday.

"Poor Clown. Is he fine?"

"He seemed completely alright, master. No injuries. What should be our next steps?"

Basil tucked the shears under his arm.

"It’s out of our league now. If Grandmaster wants to act, he will act himself."

His voice grew lower, steady, edged with an unspoken truth.

"He is the only one protecting him from the calamity. So ignore it for now."

"As you wish, master."

The call ended.

Basil slipped the phone into his pocket and finally looked up at the sky — thick clouds gathering over the hills, heavy and dark.

A faint whisper left his lips, almost like a prayer.

"I hope it doesn’t rain in Star Harbor."

....

Star Harbor — The Atelier

The weekend rush had already filled the air with chatter and warm lighting. Plates clinked, waiters moved briskly, and the scent of fresh herbs and toasted butter floated everywhere.

Miles and Adam stepped inside.

Adam’s eyes widened behind his shades before he took them off.

"This place seems popular."

Miles smirked.

"Come on, we’ll take a private room."

They walked further in, weaving past tables.

Then a familiar voice called out—

"Son?"

Miles turned with a small, genuine smile.

"father."

Daniel walked toward them, wiping his hands on a linen cloth — clearly just stepping out from helping the kitchen.

Miles gestured.

"Adam, meet my father — Daniel."

Adam extended his hand immediately.

"It’s an honor to meet you, sir."

Daniel shook his hand warmly.

"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Adam."

Miles mentions that Adam is with the Secret Service/

Daniel surprised "Secret Service?"

Adam nodded with a polite, professional ease.

"Yes sir. I’m handling part of the arrangements for Monday."

Daniel’s brows lifted slightly — impressed.

"That sounds like a huge responsibility."

Miles glanced around the restaurant.

"Where’s Mom?"

Daniel chuckled.

"On the way. She went to buy flowers today, she should be here soon."

Miles nodded.

"Good. We’re taking the private room."

Daniel pointed.

"Take the last one. It’s unreserved till evening."

"Alright. Come on, Adam."

They walked toward the quiet corridor of private dining rooms, leaving the bustling main hall behind.

The moment the sliding door closed behind them, the noise softened to a gentle hum.

The servers entered with practiced grace, setting dishes one after another — delicate appetizers, warm breads, broth, roasted meat, fresh fish, sauces placed with careful detail.

Adam sat back, looking impressed.

"You... eat like this regularly?"

Miles shrugged as he poured tea.

"Family business, mom’s recipe. Perks included."

Then the stories began — old battlefields, covert nights, missions where the odds stacked too high, the times they watched each other’s backs when no one else could.

Adam laughed at the memory of a botched extraction in Algeria.

Miles added the part he always left out: how Adam pulled him out from under collapsing debris.

Their voices stayed low, but the room felt warm — a quiet reunion between old comrades who had lived too many lives for their age.

A few minutes later, a soft knock-knock came on the door.

Both Miles and Adam glanced up.

The door slid open just enough for a tiny head to peek in — little Hope, her eyes round, her hair slightly messy from playing.

Adam blinked.

"Are you... lost, dear?"

Hope shook her head seriously and stepped inside on her tiny feet.

"Am I disturbing you, big bro?"

Miles smiled and opened his arms a bit.

"No, Tell me what happened?"

Hope tip-toed closer and leaned up to whisper in Miles’s ear — except she wasn’t very good at whispering.

"Is Asher hiding here?"

Miles hid a smile.

"No. Are you two playing hide and seek?"

Hope nodded eagerly.

"Yess! We came with Mom to help, but Daddy said we can play."

Miles gently fixed her hair.

"Then enjoy. Just don’t run into the kitchen."

Adam cleared his throat dramatically.

"Uh — excuse me? I’m still here. Is this your daughter or something?"

Miles raised a brow.

"Are you deaf? She literally just called me big bro."

Adam paused, processing.

"...Oh."

Hope walked right up to him without fear and gave a tiny polite bow — she had seen Elena do it when guests arrived.

"Hello sir. I am Hope. Big bro’s little sister."

Adam’s tough-special-forces face melted instantly.

"You... you... are so cute."

Miles burst into a laugh.

"Never thought I’d see you like this."

Adam, still staring at the little girl like she was a rare kitten he was afraid to break, whispered

"Me neither..."

Hope giggled, proud of the chaos she caused.