When Ethan returned to the parking lot, the absence of his regular driver immediately set him on edge. He approached one of the security guards, a burly man with a no-nonsense demeanor.
"Where's Mark?" Ethan asked, his tone sharp and commanding.
The guard replied, "Mark called in sick today, sir. The office sent a spare driver for you."
Ethan sighed and shook his head, a feeling of discomfort settling in his stomach. He glanced at the new driver, a nondescript man in a uniform, standing by the Rolls Royce. The driver nodded politely as Ethan approached. Rich people had so many employees; it was impossible to keep track of them all.
"Alright, let's go," Ethan said, getting into the backseat of the car.
As the car started, Ethan's phone buzzed with an incoming call from an unknown number. He hesitated for a moment before answering.
"Hello?"
There was a brief silence, followed by a woman's voice. "Ethan, it's me. Your past lover."
Ethan's brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't know who you are. You must be mistaken."
The woman persisted, her voice calm yet insistent. "You may not remember me, Ethan, but I know you. I know your name, your family, even the private details you've never shared with anyone."
Ethan's heart skipped a beat. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I just want to remind you of our past," she replied cryptically. "Don't you remember the nights we spent together? The secrets we shared?"
Ethan's mind raced. Since he was only a soul occupying Ethan's body, there was a chance that the real Ethan had a lover he didn't remember. Still, he didn't understand what this woman wanted. She kept repeating that she was his lover, nothing more, offering no further clarity.
An hour passed on the phone, the conversation looping in frustrating circles. Ethan tried to piece together the woman's intentions, but she offered no real answers, only the constant, insistent claim of their past relationship. His patience wearing thin, he was relieved when the car finally came to a stop.
"Are we home?" he asked the driver, glancing out the window. His relief turned to alarm when he realized they were in an abandoned, dark place, far from the familiar surroundings of his villa.
"Hey, this isn't my house. Where are we?" Ethan demanded, his voice rising with a mix of confusion and anger.
The driver turned around slowly, a sinister smile creeping across his face. "End of the line, Mr. Harrington."
Ethan's heart pounded as he assessed the situation. The deserted surroundings, the unsettling phone call, the driver—it all screamed of a setup. He knew he had to act quickly.
Ethan leaned back in his seat, a slow smile spreading across his face. He had faced down worse threats than this, and fear had no place in his heart. "Who sent you?" he asked calmly.
The driver's smile faltered for a moment before he pulled a silenced pistol from his coat pocket. "It's not personal, just business. Orders are orders."
Ethan's smile widened. "You don't want to do this," he said, his voice steady and confident.
The driver sneered. "Shut up and stay still."
In a flash, Ethan moved. He lunged forward, his hand striking the driver's wrist with precision, forcing the gun to point away. The car's confined space turned the struggle into a dance of calculated movements, each strike and counter-strike executed with lethal efficiency.
"You have no idea who you're dealing with," Ethan growled, his grip tightening on the driver's wrist. The gun discharged once, shattering the car window. Glass flew everywhere, but Ethan didn't flinch.
With a powerful twist, Ethan disarmed the driver and threw him against the door. The driver slumped, unconscious. Breathing evenly, Ethan checked himself for injuries, finding only minor cuts from the broken glass.
He stepped out of the car, looking around the desolate area. His mind raced with the implications of the attack. The woman's call, the fake driver—it all pointed to something much larger than a simple ambush.
He quickly dialed the police, his voice calm and authoritative. "This is Ethan Harrington. I was just attacked. I'm at an abandoned lot near the old industrial district. Send help immediately."
As he waited for help to arrive, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. Whoever wanted him dead had gone to great lengths, and he needed to uncover the truth before they succeeded in their next attempt.
Ethan leaned against the car, his eyes scanning the dark surroundings. He couldn't let his guard down. Not now, not ever. He was a marked man, and every second counted.
As Ethan leaned against the car, catching his breath, he noticed movement from the corners of the abandoned lot. Men emerged from the shadows, their faces grim and determined, armed with a variety of weapons. They encircled him, creating a tightening noose of danger.
Ethan observed them calmly, his eyes narrowing slightly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his lighter. He took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke, not a hint of fear in his eyes.
"Alright, boys," he said, his voice carrying a cool, unyielding edge. "Who sent you?"
The men didn't respond. Their jaws clenched, eyes hardening as they prepared to attack. One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, his grip tightening on a baseball bat.
"Enough talk," the scarred man growled. "Let's get this over with."
Ethan sighed, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."
Without warning, the first attacker lunged at Ethan, swinging the bat with all his might. Ethan sidestepped gracefully, his movements fluid and precise. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it sharply and forcing the bat to the ground.
Another man, wielding a knife, rushed in from Ethan's left. Ethan ducked under the swipe, delivering a swift, powerful punch to the man's stomach, doubling him over. He followed up with a knee to the face, sending the attacker sprawling.
The group hesitated for a moment, taken aback by Ethan's speed and skill. He smiled, taking another drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around him like a shroud.
"Come on," he taunted, his voice low and dangerous. "Is that all you've got?"
The men roared in unison, charging at him from all sides. Ethan moved like a dancer, each motion deliberate and efficient. He disarmed a man with a crowbar, using it to block another's pipe swing. A swift elbow to the face, a roundhouse kick to the jaw—Ethan was a whirlwind of calculated violence.
One by one, the attackers fell, their weapons clattering to the ground. Ethan's movements were a blur of martial prowess, his expression never wavering from that calm, almost bored demeanor. He made it look effortless, as if he were merely swatting away flies.
As the last man standing swung a chain at him, Ethan caught it mid-air, yanking the attacker forward and delivering a knockout blow to the jaw. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Ethan took one final drag from his cigarette, then flicked it away, the embers glowing in the dim light of the lot. He surveyed the scene, the unconscious bodies of his would-be assailants strewn around him.
He pulled out his phone again, dialing a number with a steady hand. "This is Ethan Harrington," he said once more. "I've just been attacked by multiple assailants. I'm at the same location. Send more units."
As he ended the call, he couldn't help but wonder who was desperate enough to send this many men after him. One thing was clear: he was far from safe, and the hunt for answers had only just begun. He scanned the area, his sharp eyes missing nothing, ready for whatever came next.