The Mexican sun rose over La Fortaleza, a fortress of concrete and steel perched on the edge of the desert. Inside, Thomas "The Ghost" Morrison paced his cell like a caged panther, his mind a razor blade cutting through the monotony of prison life. His escape was a chess game he’d been playing for months, each move calculated with the precision of a master.
La Fortaleza prided itself on being escape-proof. Its walls bristled with cameras, motion sensors, and guards with itchy trigger fingers. The Ghost had been here for over a year, but time hadn’t dulled his edge. It had only sharpened his resolve.
His first move was subtle. Befriend the right inmates. Men who controlled the flow of contraband, who could get their hands on anything. Through whispers and deals, he acquired small items: a wire here, a piece of plastic there. Nothing that would raise alarms by itself, but together, they were the tools of his trade.
Morrison’s next move involved the guards. He observed their routines, their habits, their weaknesses. There was Officer Hernandez, who always took an extra five minutes on his smoke break. Lieutenant Perez, who favored the bottle more than his duties. The Ghost knew how to exploit human nature.
The night came when everything was in place. The Ghost lay on his bunk, eyes closed, but his mind was a whirlwind of plans and contingencies. He had memorized the security system’s rhythms, the blind spots in the cameras, the timing of the guard rotations. He had even managed to subtly alter the schedule of the laundry service, giving himself a narrow window of opportunity.
At 2 AM, the cell block was quiet, save for the snores and muttered dreams of the inmates. Morrison moved with the grace of a shadow, his hands deftly working on the lock of his cell. The modified plastic card slid into place, and with a soft click, the door swung open. He slipped into the hallway, blending into the darkness.
His path took him through the maintenance corridors, where cameras were sparse and the hum of machinery drowned out any noise. He reached the electrical room, a fortress within the fortress. The Ghost pulled out a small EMP device he had fashioned from scavenged parts. He set it against the control panel and activated it. The lights flickered, and the security system hiccupped—a brief blackout, but long enough.
Morrison moved quickly, slipping through the security checkpoint and into the open air of the prison yard. The final obstacle was the perimeter fence, electrified and monitored. But The Ghost had planned for this too. He pulled out a rubber-coated blanket, tossing it over the fence and scaling it with the agility of a cat. He landed on the other side, his feet kicking up dust as he ran into the desert night.
Freedom tasted like dust and adrenaline. He had a stash waiting for him—cash, a fake passport, and a car. Morrison drove through the night, never looking back at the hell he had left behind. He had a score to settle.
Months passed, and The Ghost wove himself into the shadows of society. He took on new identities, new faces, blending into the underworld with the ease of a chameleon. His mind never strayed from his goal: revenge on the detective who had put him behind bars and the woman who had helped him.
Jack Marlowe and Samantha Blackthorne had vanished after the Puerto Vallarta job. They had gone underground, their trail cold. But The Ghost was patient. He tracked their movements through whispers in the criminal underworld, piecing together their new lives like a jigsaw puzzle.
The break came when he intercepted a coded message from an old contact in Mexico. Marlowe and Blackthorne were running a small detective agency in a sleepy coastal town, just far enough from prying eyes but close enough to keep their skills sharp. The town was a postcard of paradise, with its sandy beaches and turquoise waters, but The Ghost saw it for what it was: a stage for his final act.
He arrived in the town under the guise of a tourist, renting a small villa overlooking the ocean. He watched them from a distance, noting their routines, their habits. Marlowe still had that sharp gaze, and Blackthorne’s laugh still held the same dangerous edge. They were good—better than good—but The Ghost was better.
He laid his plans with the meticulous care of a jeweler setting a diamond. There would be no mistakes this time. The Ghost would make sure of it.
One evening, as the sun dipped into the ocean and painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, The Ghost sat on the balcony of his villa, a glass of bourbon in his hand. Through binoculars, he watched Marlowe and Blackthorne walk along the beach, their laughter carried on the breeze.
They had no idea he was there, that their past was about to catch up with them in the most brutal way. The Ghost smiled, cold and calculating. He would enjoy this—every last moment of it.
In the shadows of the coastal paradise, Thomas Morrison waited, his revenge burning bright and cold in the pit of his stomach. The game was afoot once more, and this time, he would make sure Jack Marlowe and Samantha Blackthorne paid for every slight, every scar, every moment of suffering he had endured.
The sun set, and the night embraced the town in its velvet grip. The Ghost stood, downed his bourbon, and walked back into the villa. There were preparations to be made, plans to be set in motion. The hunt was on.
And this time, there would be no escape for his prey.
End of Pt 1
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