Mob Boss’s Son Beat My Daughter—He Didn’t Know I Was a Black Ops Assassin for 25 Years

To our amazing viewers at Cheating Tales Lab, we’d love to hear which part of the world are you joining us from. Let us know. Now, let’s dive into today’s story. Chapter 1, The Quiet Life. Simon Hannah adjusted his reading glasses and set down the morning newspaper on his kitchen table.

 The headline about a local business merger barely held his interest. At 52, he traded the adrenaline of covert operations for the peaceful rhythm of civilian life. His callous hands, once steady on rifle triggers in hostile territories, now gripped coffee mugs and gardening tools. The suburban Denver home he bought 3 years ago, was a far cry from the safe houses and barracks that had sheltered him for 25 years.

 Simon had served in places that didn’t exist on official maps, eliminating threats that never made the evening news. The CIA had recruited him straight from Marine Force Recon, recognizing something in the young soldier that others missed, an ability to compartmentalize a motion and execute with surgical precision. But those days were behind him now.

 The agency had offered him a generous pension package after a mission in Montenegro went sideways, leaving him with a permanent limp and shrapnel scars across his back. More importantly, it had given him time to reconnect with a daughter he’d barely known. Paige Hannah was 23 now, a graduate student at the University of Colorado studying journalism.

 She’d grown up with her mother in California after Simon’s ex-wife grew tired of his extended absences and classified explanations. For years, Simon had been little more than birthday cards and awkward phone calls. But since his retirement, they’d been rebuilding their relationship, one coffee date and dinner at a time. The sound of gravel crunching in his driveway pulled Simon from his thoughts.

Through the window, he watched Paige’s blue Honda Civic pull up next to his black Ford truck. She was early for their planned lunch, which was unusual for someone who operated on college time. Simon opened the front door before she could knock, a smile already forming, but it died on his lips when he saw her face.

 Paige’s left eye was swollen shut. A deep purple bruise spreading across her cheek like spilled ink. Her lip was split, dried blood marking where someone’s fist had connected. She wore oversized sunglasses, but they couldn’t hide the damage. Jesus Christ, Paige. Simon’s voice was steady, but his hands were already moving to examine her injuries with the clinical precision of someone who’ assessed battlefield wounds.

 “Who did this to you?” She flinched away from his touch, wrapping her arms around herself. “Dad, I it was an accident. We just had a fight and things got out of hand. We Simon’s tone sharpened. He developed an ear for evasion during countless interrogations. Your boyfriend? Mark? Paige nodded reluctantly. Mark Vargas was the son of a prominent Denver businessman.

 Or so she’d told Simon when she’d started dating him 6 months ago. The kid drove expensive cars and threw money around like confetti, which had raised Simon suspicions from the start. But Paige was an adult and Simon had been trying to respect her independence. That consideration evaporated the moment he saw her bruised face. “He hit you.

” “It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t like that,” Paige said quickly, but her voice cracked. He’d been drinking and I said something that upset him. He just lost control for a second. Simon guided her into the house, his mind already shifting into operational mode. He’d seen enough domestic violence cases during his military service to recognize the pattern.

 The victim making excuses, minimizing the violence, protecting the abuser. It made his blood run cold. “Sit down,” he said, leading her to the couch. “Let me get some eyes for that eye.” As he moved through the motions of basic first aid, Simon’s mind was processing information. Mark Vargas, 24 years old, drove a red Maserati, lived in an upscale downtown loft.

 Simon had done a background check when Paige first mentioned him. Old habits died hard. What he’d found was troubling. A sealed juvenile record, two assault charges that have been mysteriously dropped, and connections to his father’s import business that seemed suspiciously profitable for someone who allegedly dealt in electronics.

 Paige,” Simon said, sitting across from her with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened, and I need you to tell me the truth.” She looked up at him with her one good eye, and for a moment, he saw the little girl who used to call him on Sundays crying because she missed her daddy.

 The rage that had been building in his chest crystallized into something harder and more focused, something that men like Mark Vargas wouldn’t see coming until it was far too late. Chapter 2. The monster’s face. Paige’s story came out in broken fragments over the next hour. She and Mark had been at his loft the night before attending a party with his friends.

 Paige had been uncomfortable with the crowd. Too much cocaine being passed around. Too many conversations about business that stopped when she walked by. When she’d suggested leaving early, Marcet accused her of being uptight and embarrassing him. The argument had escalated.

 When they were alone, Mark had grabbed her wrist hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises that Simon could now see peeking out from under her long sleeves. When she tried to pull away, he’d backhanded her across the face with enough force to knock her down. He said, “I was lucky it wasn’t worse.” Paige whispered, pressing the ice pack to her swollen eye.

 He said his father had taught him how to discipline women who didn’t know their place. Simon’s hands clenched into fists. 25 years of training had taught him to control his emotions. But the image of his daughter cowering while some spoiled brat heard her was testing every limit he’d built. “You’re not going back there,” he said flatly. “Dad, it’s not that simple. You don’t understand who these people are. Then explain it to me.” Paige took a shaky breath.

 Arturo Vargas isn’t just a businessman. He’s connected. Like seriously connected. Mark likes to brag about it when he’s been drinking. says his father runs half the illegal activity in Colorado. Drugs, gambling, protection rackets. The kind of people who make problems disappear. Simon absorbed this information without visible reaction.

 He’d suspected the Vargas family was dirty, but confirmation still sent a chill down his spine. Not because he was afraid. Simon Hannah had faced down cartel scarios and terrorist cells without blinking, but because it meant Paige had been dating the son of a criminal who could make her life very difficult if she tried to leave. Has Mark ever mentioned me to his father? Simon asked. I don’t think so.

Why would he? You’re just my dad who works in security consulting. Paige had never known the true nature of Simon’s government work. As far as she knew, he’d spent his career as a private contractor doing background checks and risk assessments. Simon’s phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

 The caller ID showed a number he didn’t recognize, but something about the deliberate timing made his skin crawl. Simon Hannah, he answered. Mr. Hannah, the voice was heavily accented, carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. My name is Arturo Vargas. I believe you know my son, Mark.

 Simon’s eyes met pages across the room. She’d gone pale somehow, knowing who was on the other end of the line. I know of him, Simon replied carefully. Good. Then you understand why I’m calling. Your daughter disrespected my boy last night. Made him look foolish in front of his associates. This cannot stand.

 The casual arrogance in Vargas’ tone made Simon’s jaw clench. Is that so? Indeed. Paige will return to Mark today and apologized for her behavior. She will learn her place as all women must. This is not a request, Mr. Hannah. This is how things will be. Simon looked at his daughter’s bruised face and felt something cold settle in his chest.

 Something he hadn’t felt since his last mission in Montenegro when he tracked down the war criminal who’d been selling children to human traffickers. And if she doesn’t, Simon asked, his voice deadly quiet. Arturo chuckled. A sound like gravel in a cement mixer. Then you’ll discover why smart men in this city don’t cross the Vargas family. I trust we understand each other.

 The line went dead. Simon set down the phone and looked at his daughter who was staring at him with barely contained terror. Dad, she whispered, “What are we going to do?” Simon stood up and walked to the kitchen window, gazing out at his peaceful suburban neighborhood. An old woman was walking her dog. A teenager was washing his car in a driveway.

Normal people living normal lives, blissfully unaware that monsters like Arturo Vargas existed in their world. But Simon had spent his entire adult life hunting monsters. He knew their weaknesses, their fears, their breaking points. And he learned long ago that sometimes the only way to stop a monster was to become something worse. Pack a bag, he told Paige.

 You’re going to stay with your aunt Virginia in Phoenix for a while. What about you? Simon turned back to face her. And for the first time since his retirement, Paige saw a glimpse of the man her father had been before he’d become a suburban retiree. There was something in his eyes that was older than his years and harder than stone. I’m going to have a conversation with Mr. Vargas about respect.

 Chapter 3. Lines in the Sand. Simon drove Paige to Denver International Airport that evening using surface streets and taking an indirect route that would make them difficult to follow. Old paranoia perhaps, but Arturo Vargas hadn’t built a criminal empire by being careless about security.

 I still think this is a mistake, Paige said as they pulled into the departure zone. These people aren’t going to just let this go. I’m counting on it, Simon replied, pulling her bag from the truck bed. He walk her to the security checkpoint, scanning the crowds for anyone paying too much attention to them. Nothing stood out, but that didn’t mean much.

 Professional surveillance was an art form, and the Vargas organization had money to hire talented people. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” Paige said, hugging him tightly. “I promise it wasn’t entirely a lie. Simon would be careful. Careful to leave no witnesses.” After Paige’s flight departed, Simon drove home through the gathering darkness.

 His suburban neighborhood looked exactly the same as when he’d left it, but something fundamental had shifted. The quiet life he’d built here was over, burned away by a single phone call from a man who thought intimidation was a substitute for strength. Simon parked in his garage and spent 20 minutes checking his house for surveillance devices.

 He found three, two listening devices and a camera planted by professionals who knew their trade. The Vargas organization was clearly taking him seriously, which meant they’d done at least some research into his background. That was their first mistake. Simon left the devices in place, but disabled them with small applications of electromagnetic interference that would look like random technical failures.

 Then he went down to his basement and moved aside a gun cabinet that had been bolted to the wall. Behind was a hidden panel that opened to reveal a small arsenal. The weapons were legally owned. Simon’s security consulting business gave him legitimate reasons to maintain a collection of firearms for testing and demonstration purposes.

 But some items in his cash weren’t the kind of things that appeared on any registration documents. He selected a Heckler and Ko MP7 submachine gun, compact enough to conceal but devastating at close range. Six extra magazines went into a tactical vest along with a ceramic trauma plate that could stop rifle rounds. A suppressed Glock 19 became his backup weapon, riding in a shoulder holster that disappeared under his jacket.

 The transformation from suburban retiree to killing machine took less than 10 minutes. As Simon checked his gear one final time, he felt the familiar calm that had always descended before mission. Emotion was a luxury he couldn’t afford now. There was only the objective and the most efficient path to complete it.

 His phone rang as he was loading additional equipment into a duffel bag. The number was Mark Vardis. Mr. Hannah. The voice was young and cocky with an undertone of barely controlled violence. This is Mark. I think we need to talk about what? About your daughter and where she is right now. See, my father’s not happy that she didn’t show up to apologize like she was supposed to. He’s starting to think you people don’t take our family seriously.

Simon’s voice remained perfectly level. Where do you want to meet? The Blackstone Club on 17th Street. 1 hour. Come alone. And Mr. Hannah, don’t try anything clever. We have people watching you. The line went dead before Simon could respond. He knew the Blackstone Club, an upscale establishment that catered to Denver’s wealthy elite.

 The kind of place where influential people conducted business that couldn’t happen in offices with security cameras and recording devices. Simon finished his preparations and loaded his gear into the truck. As he drove toward downtown, he mentally reviewed everything he knew about the Vargas organization.

 Arturo was the patriarch, a man in his 60s who’d built his empire through a combination of violence and political corruption. Mark was his era parent, a spoiled sadist who used his father’s reputation to indulge his worst impulses. The family’s legitimate businesses provided cover for their illegal activities.

 But their real power came from owning judges, police officials, and politicians throughout the state. They were exactly the kind of organized crime syndicate that Simon had spent years dismantling in other countries. The difference was that this time it was personal.

 Simon parked three blocks from the Blackstone Club and approached on foot using shop windows and car mirrors to check for surveillance. He spotted at least four watchers. Two in a sedan across from the club’s entrance, one in a coffee shop with a clear view of the street, and another posing as a homeless man near the alley entrance. Professional deployment, but not perfect.

 The homeless man’s shoes were too expensive, and one of the men in the sedan kept checking his watch like he was on a schedule. Small details that marked them as competent, but not exceptional operators. Simon slipped into the alley and approached the back entrance of the club. The lock was electronic, but his pocket kit included tools that could bypass most commercial security systems.

He was inside within 90 seconds, moving through service corridors toward the main dining room. The Blackstone Club’s interior was all dark wood and leather designed to evoke the private men’s clubs of a bygone era. Simon found Mark Vargas at a corner table flanked by two bodyguards who look like they bench press small cars for recreation.

 Mark was younger than Simon had expected, with dark hair, sllicked back, and expensive clothes that couldn’t disguise the cruelty in his eyes. “This was the man who’d beaten his daughter, and Simon felt that familiar coldness settle deeper into his bones.” “Mr. Hannah,” Mark said, gesturing to an empty chair, “Punctual. I appreciate that in a man.

” Simon sat down, but kept his hands free. You want to talk about respect, about understanding your place in a natural order. Mark leaned back in his chair, supremely confident. See, my father built something here, something that requires maintenance.

 When people like your daughter forget their manners, it creates problems. What kind of problems? Mark smiled and Simon saw genuine sadism in the expression. The kind that hurt, the kind that last. Your daughter’s pretty, Mr. Hannah. be ashamed if something happened to that face. The threat hung in the air between them like smoke from a funeral p.

 Simon had heard similar words from cartel bosses and terrorist leaders. Men who thought violence was a substitute for intelligence. They were all dead now. Is that what you told her last night? Simon asked quietly. Before you hit her, Mark’s smile widened. Among other things, girl needed to learn respect. Maybe you do, too.

 That’s when Simon knew that Mark Vargas was going to die. Not eventually, not if circumstances required it, but soon and with considerable suffering. The only question was whether his father would join him. “You’re right,” Simon said, standing up slowly. “I didn’t need to learn respect.” “Thank you for the education.” He turned and walked away, feeling Mark’s eyes boring into his back.

 The bodyguards tensed, but Mark waved him off. He was enjoying himself too much to end the game early. That was his second mistake. Simon exited through the front door, nodding politely to the hostess. As he walked back to his truck, he mentally cataloged everything he’d observed, the club’s layout, the number of security cameras, the positioning of Mark’s protection detail. Most importantly, he confirmed what kind of man he was dealing with.

 Mark Vargas wasn’t just a criminal. He was a predator who enjoyed inflicting pain on those weaker than himself. The world would be a better place without him in it. Simon started his truck and drove home, already planning his next move. He had 48 hours before Mark would expect to hear from him again.

 48 hours to become something that even a Vargas family would fear. It was more than enough time. Chapter 4. The hunter’s preparation. Simon spent the next morning in what appeared to be mundane suburban activities. He went to the hardware store and bought extension cords, duct tape, and zip ties.

 He visited a sporting goods shop for camping gear and emergency supplies. To any observer, he looked like a middle-aged man preparing for a weekend in the mountains. In reality, he was assembling a mobile operations kit that would have impressed his former CIA handlers. The afternoon was devoted to reconnaissance. Simon had learned long ago that successful operations were built on intelligence, and the Vargas family was about to receive a masterclass in asymmetric warfare.

 He started with Artro Vargas’ primary residence, a sprawling estate in Cherry Hills Village that sat on 15 acres of manicure grounds. The property was surrounded by a 10-ft stone wall topped with ornamental iron spikes that were probably electrified. Security cameras were visible at regular intervals, and Simon counted at least six guards patrolling the perimeter.

 A frontal assault would be suicide, which meant Arturo had probably never faced a real threat. Men who relied on walls and guards often forgot that the most dangerous enemies were the ones who didn’t announce themselves. Simon photographed the estate from multiple angles using a telephoto lens, noting weak points in the security coverage. The northeast corner of the property was obscured by mature oak trees that would provide concealment for someone who knew how to move through hostile territory.

 More importantly, the trees extended to within 50 m of the main house. Mark’s downtown loft was a different challenge. The building was 30 stories of glass and steel with a doorman, elevator key cards, and enough security cameras to stock a surveillance store. But it also had a weakness that Archurro’s fortress lacked. It was surrounded by other tall buildings.

 Simon spent an hour on the roof of an adjacent office building using binoculars to study Mark’s penthouse. The young man was home, visible through floor toseeiling windows as he moved around his living room. He was alone except for a single bodyguard who spent most of his time watching television. Overconfidence was a cancer that ate away at operational security. Mark thought his father’s reputation was armor enough to protect him. He was about to learn otherwise.

 That evening, Simon made his most important stop. Harold Campos had been his handler during the last 5 years of his CIA career, a man who’d started in military intelligence and worked his way up through the AY’s paramilitary division. More importantly, Harold owed Simon his life after a mission in Syria had gone sideways.

 Harold’s current job was deputy director of security for a Denver-based defense contractor, which gave him access to certain resources that weren’t available through normal channels. They met at a 24-hour diner on the outskirts of the city. The kind of place where conversations weren’t recorded and patrons minded their own business.

 Jesus, Simon, Harold said after hearing an abbreviated version of recent events. You know, I can’t officially help you with this. I’m not asking for official help. Harold stirred his coffee and studied Simon’s face. After 30 years in the intelligence business, he could read between the lines. What do you need? Information? The kind that doesn’t show up in public records about the Vargas family? Simon nodded.

 Financial networks, safe houses, key personnel, anything that might be useful for a hypothetical security assessment. Harold was quiet for a long moment. He’d worked with Simon long enough to know that hypothetical assessments sometimes became very real operations, but he also knew that Simon didn’t ask for help unless the situation was genuinely serious.

 There might be some files from a DEA task force that investigated the Vargas organization 2 years ago, Harold said carefully. Files that were sealed when the investigation was shut down due to lack of evidence. Lack of evidence or political interference? Both Arturo Vargas has friends in high places, but the task force compiled some interesting intelligence before they were told to back off.

 Harold slid a small USB drive across the table. Hypothetically speaking, of course. And Simon, be careful. These people have resources you might not expect. Simon pocketed the drive. Thank you. Don’t thank me yet. And whatever you’re planning, remember that the best operations are the ones that look like accidents. Simon returned home after midnight and spent the next 3 hours studying the files Harold had provided.

 The DEA investigation had been more thorough than he’d expected, mapping out the Vargas organization’s entire structure. Financial records, personnel files, surveillance photos, wiretap transcripts, everything needed to understand how Arturo had built his empire.

 The picture that emerged was of a sophisticated criminal enterprise with tentacles reaching into every aspect of Colorado’s economy. Drugs were the foundation, but the Vargas family also controlled gambling operations, money laundering schemes, and a protection racket that targeted everything from construction companies to restaurant chains.

 Most disturbing were the files documenting the organization’s enforcement arm. Mark wasn’t just Archurro’s son. He was the head of a crew that specialized in intimidation and violence. The DEA had connected him to at least seven murders, but had never been able to develop enough evidence for prosecution.

 Simon studied crime scene photos and coroner’s reports, noting the patterns of violence. Mark’s victims were usually found beaten to death, often after being tortured for extended periods. This wasn’t business. It was sadism dressed up as operational necessity. The most useful intelligence was a detailed layout of the Vargas estate, including architectural plans that showed hidden rooms and escape tunnels.

 The DEA had obtained the blueprints through a subpoena that was later ruled in Belid, but the information was still accurate. Simon memorized every detail, then burned the files in his fireplace. By dawn, he had a complete operational plan. It was audacious and dangerous with no room for error or hesitation. It was also exactly the kind of mission he’d built his reputation on.

 Simon made coffee and sat in his kitchen as the sun came up, watching normal people begin their normal days. In 18 hours, he would cross a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. The quiet life he’d built here would be over, replaced by something much older and darker. But as he thought about Paige’s bruised face and Mark’s casual threats, Simon felt no regret.

 Some lines once crossed demanded a response. And Simon Hannah had never been the kind of man to let aggression go unanswered. He finished his coffee and went to the basement to begin final preparations. By the time the sun set again, the Vargas family would understand what it meant to threaten the wrong man’s daughter.

Chapter 5. First blood. Simon began his assault on the Vargas Empire at exactly 10:47 p.m. starting with their drug distribution network. The DEA files had identified a warehouse in Commerce City where the organization processed cocaine shipments from Mexico.

 Intelligence indicated the facility operated with a skeleton crew at night, usually just three guards and a supervisor. Simon approached the warehouse through an industrial district that was deserted after business hours. He traded his suburban disguise for tactical gear. Black clothing, ceramic armor, and weapons that turned him into a one-man army.

 The transformation was complete when he pulled on night vision goggles that turned the darkness into green tinted clarity. The warehouse was a converted aircraft hanger surrounded by a chainlink fence topped with razor wire. Simon cut through the fence using militarygrade bolt cutters, creating an entry point that would be invisible from the guard posts.

 The exterior cameras were on predictable rotation schedules, leaving blind spots that he navigated with practiced ease. The first guard never saw him coming. Simon approached from behind and applied a blood choke that rendered the man unconscious in seconds. He zip tied the guard’s hands and feet, then dragged him into a storage closet.

 The second guard went down the same way, caught while making his rounds through the packaging area. The third guard was more alert, but alertness was no match for superior training. Simon used a suppressed pistol to put him down with a single shot to the center of mass. Clean, quiet, and efficient. The supervisor was in the office counting money and sampling product. Simon entered without knocking.

“Don’t move,” he said, training his pistol on the man’s chest. The supervisor was in his 40s with prison tattoos and the kind of scarred face that came from years of violence. But there was genuine fear in his eyes as he stared at the dark figure who’d materialized in his office. “Who are you?” he whispered.

 “Someone who wants to send a message to Arturo Vargas.” Simon spent the next 20 minutes gathering intelligence. The supervisor, whose name was Jake Porter, proved surprisingly cooperative when faced with the alternative of immediate death. He provided details about shipment schedules, financial procedures, and the names of other Vargas facilities throughout the state.

 When Simon had extracted everything useful, he put a bullet through Porter’s head and began setting charges throughout the warehouse. The explosives were small but precisely placed, designed to create maximum destruction while minimizing the risk to nearby buildings. Simon was three blocks away when the warehouse erupted in a fireball that lit up the night sky. Fire department sirens were already wailing in the distance as he drove toward his next target.

 The Vargas organization operated a high-end gambling den in a converted warehouse near downtown Denver. Unlike the drug facility, this location catered to wealthy clients who expected luxury along with their illegal entertainment. According to the DEA files, Mark Vargas frequently visited the club to collect tribute and terrorized the staff.

 Simon parked in an alley and approached on foot using service tunnels that connected to the building’s basement. The gambling den security was focused on preventing robbery and monitoring patrons. They weren’t prepared for a military-style assault from below. He entered through a steam tunnel that connected to the building’s heating system.

 The basement was full of electrical equipment and storage areas, exactly as the architectural plans had indicated. Simon moved through the mechanical spaces until he found access to the club’s main floor. The gambling den was everything he’d expected from an upscale criminal operation.

 Elegant decor, beautiful dealers, and the kind of patrons who drove cars worth more than most people’s houses. Poker games with six figure pots were running at several tables while a high stakes dice game drew crowds of spectators. Simon positioned himself in the balcony area, using the shadows and crowd noise to mask his presence. He wasn’t here to rob the establishment or harm innocent bystanders.

 He was here to deliver a very specific message. Mark Vargas was holding court at a corner table, surrounded by associates who laughed at his jokes and nodded at his pronouncements. He was drunk and loud, regailing his audience with stories about keeping [ __ ] in line. Simon listened for 5 minutes, confirming everything he’d suspected about the man’s character.

 When Mark finally stood to visit the men’s room, Simon made his move. The bathroom was empty except for Mark, who was too intoxicated to notice Simon’s approach until it was far too late. A precisely applied choke hold rendered him unconscious within seconds. Simon zip tied his hands and feet, then dragged him into a storage room adjacent to the restroom.

 Mark came around 10 minutes later to find himself bound to a metal chair with Simon sitting across from him. The room was soundproofed, a feature the gambling den’s owners had installed to prevent noise complaints from neighbors. What the [ __ ] Mark began. Simon backhanded him hard enough to split his lip. Lesson one. You don’t touch my daughter. Recognition dawned in Mark’s eyes.

 You’re [ __ ] dead, old man. My father will. Another slap harder this time. Your father just lost a million dollars worth of product and his primary distribution center. That’s the price of disrespecting my family. March bravado cracked slightly. The warehouse explosion had been visible from downtown and news was probably already spreading through the organization’s communication networks.

 You don’t know who you’re [ __ ] with, Mark snarled. But there was uncertainty in his voice now. Simon leaned forward until their faces were inches apart. I know exactly who I’m dealing with. A spoiled child who thinks daddy’s reputation makes him untouchable. A coward who beats women because he’s too weak to face real opposition. He stood and drew a tactical knife from his belt. Mark’s eyes went wide with terror.

 “Please,” he whispered. “I’ll pay you. Whatever you want. I don’t want your money.” Simon grabbed Mark’s left hand and positioned the knife above his pinky finger. I want you to understand consequences. The blade came down with surgical precision, severing the finger at the middle joint. Mark’s scream was muffled by the soundproofing, but the agony was clearly visible on his face.

 “That’s for touching her,” Simon said calmly. “This is for threatening her.” The ring finger went next, followed by methodical explanation of what would happen if Mark ever came near Paige again. By the time Simon was finished, Mark was sobbing and begging for mercy.

 Tell your father that Simon Hannah sends his regards, Simon said, cutting Mark’s bonds. And tell him that what happened tonight was just the beginning. He left Mark bleeding and traumatized in the storage room, then exited the building the same way he’d entered. The gambling den security would find their boss’s son eventually, but not before Simon was long gone.

 As he drove home through the empty streets, Simon felt the familiar satisfaction that came from a successful mission. The Vargas organization had been hurt tonight financially, operationally, and psychologically. But more importantly, they now knew they were dealing with someone who wouldn’t be intimidated or deterred.

 The war had begun in earnest, and Simon Hannah intended to win it. Chapter 6. Escalation. The news crews arrived at the Commerce City warehouse before dawn, drawn by reports of a massive explosion that had lit up the night sky. Local police cordoned off the area while arson investigators sifted through the rubble, but they found no evidence pointing to specific perpetrators.

 The fire had been too intense, destroying everything that might have provided forensic clues. Simon watched the coverage from his kitchen while drinking coffee and planning his next move. The media was calling it an industrial accident, possibly caused by faulty electrical equipment. The truth would never make it to the evening news.

 His phone rang at exactly 8:00 a.m. The caller ID showed Arturo Vargas’ number. You’ve made a serious error in judgment, Mr. Hannah. The old man’s voice was steady, but Simon could hear the underlying fury. My son is in the hospital. My warehouse is ash. This will not stand. Your son put my daughter in the hospital. Simon replied calmly. I consider us even.

 Even Archurro’s laugh was like grinding metal. You cost me millions of dollars in product and infrastructure. You torture my air. There is no world in which we are even. Simon had expected this reaction. Men like Arturo Vargas were ruled by pride and reputation.

 Any challenge to their authority had to be answered with overwhelming force or else they risked appearing weak to their subordinates. What do you propose? Simon asked. Surrender. Come to my estate unarmed, and I’ll make your death quick. Refuse, and I’ll hunt down everyone you’ve ever cared about, starting with your daughter. The threat was delivered with casual confidence.

 As if Arturo couldn’t imagine any other outcome. He’d built his empire by convincing people that resistance was feudal, that crossing the Vargas family meant inevitable destruction. He was about to learn otherwise. I’ll be there tonight, Simon said. Midnight. Wise choice. And Mr. Hannah, come alone. The line went dead, leaving Simon alone with his thoughts.

 Aruro expected him to arrive as a beaten man, ready to accept whatever punishment the crime boss decided to inflict. Instead, he would face the most dangerous enemy of his long and violent career. Simon spent the afternoon in final preparations. He field stripped and cleaned his weapons, checked his equipment, and reviewed the estate’s architectural plans one last time.

 The DEA files included detailed information about Archurro’s security arrangements, including guard rotations, camera positions, and the location of safe rooms. Most useful was intelligence about the estate’s hidden tunnel system. Arturo had commissioned the construction of several escape routes when he built the house.

 Paranoid about potential raids by law enforcement or rival criminal organizations. The tunnels were his insurance policy against disaster. Tonight they would become his tomb. Simon left his house at 1000 p.m. driving through Denver suburban sprawl toward the exclusive enclave where Colorado’s wealthiest residents live behind gates and walls.

 The Vargas estate occupied prime real estate in Cherry Hills Village, a fortress of stone and steel that proclaimed its owner’s power and wealth. He parked two miles away and approached on foot using drainage ditches and tree lines to avoid the security cameras that monitored the surrounding area.

 The estate’s perimeter was lit by flood lights, but Simon had learned to move through hostile territory during his years with the agency. Light and shadow were tools to be manipulated, not obstacles to be feared. The northeast corner of the property offered the best approach, just as his earlier reconnaissance had indicated.

 The oak trees provided concealment up to the wall itself, where Simon used a grappling hook to scale the stone barrier. He dropped into the estate’s grounds at 11:43 p.m., 17 minutes before his scheduled appointment. The grounds were patrolled by six guards armed with assault rifles and equipped with radio communication. Simon neutralized them one by one using his suppressed pistol and knife to eliminate threats without alerting the main house.

 The work was methodical and efficient, drawing on skills that had been honed in a dozen different countries. By midnight, the exterior security was gone and Simon was positioned outside the main house. Through the windows, he could see Artro Vargas waiting in his study, flanked by four bodyguards. The crime boss was dressed in an expensive suit, sitting behind a mahogany desk like a king holding court.

 Simon checked his weapons one final time, then entered the house through a basement window that connected to the tunnel system. The underground passages were exactly as the DEA plans had indicated, narrow concrete corridors that snake beneath the estate like arteries in a body.

 He made his way to the tunnel entrance closest to Aruro’s study, then began his assault on the main house. The first bodyguard went down to a knife thrust between the ribs, quiet and fatal. The second died when Simon snapped his neck from behind, using leverage and technique rather than brute strength.

 The remaining guards finally realized they were under attack when Simon kicked down Study Door, but their training was no match for his experience. Militaryra tactics and superior firepower ended the fight in less than 30 seconds. When the gunfire stopped, Arturo Vargas was alone with a man who destroyed his empire in a single night. “Impossible,” the old crime boss whispered, staring at the bodies of his supposedly elite security team.

 Simon stepped over the corpses and approached the desk. His rifle trained on Archurro’s chest. Your son thought the same thing right up until I started cutting off his fingers. Archurro’s composure cracked slightly. What do you want? Justice for my daughter and every other person your family has hurt. You’re just one man. You can’t destroy everything I’ve built. Simon smiled.

 And there was nothing human in the expression. Watch me. The conversation that followed was brief and one-sided. Simon explained exactly what he’d done to the Vargas organization over the past 48 hours, including the warehouse destruction and Mark’s mutilation. But more importantly, he revealed what was coming next.

 “I’ve spent 25 years learning how to dismantle criminal enterprises,” Simon said. “I know where you keep your money, who you bribe, and how your operations function. By tomorrow morning, the FBI will have enough evidence to put your entire organization in federal prison. You’re bluffing. Simon produced a USB drive from his pocket. Financial records, communication intercepts, personnel files, everything.

 My former colleagues need to roll up your network. The only question is whether you’ll be alive to see it happen. Archurro’s face went pale as he realized the scope of what he was facing. This wasn’t just a grieving father seeking revenge. It was a professional intelligence operative conducting a systematic operation. “Please,” he whispered.

 “I have grandchildren.” Simon thought about Paige’s bruised face and Mark’s casual threats. “You should have considered that before threatening mine.” The single gunshot echoed through the mansion like thunder. When the police arrived 30 minutes later, they found Arturo Vargas dead at his desk and 17 bodyguards scattered throughout the estate.

 The scene looked like a war zone, but there were no witnesses and no useful forensic evidence. The investigation would continue for months, but it would never identify the perpetrator. Simon Hannah had vanished into the night like smoke, leaving behind only the destruction of Colorado’s most powerful criminal family. By dawn, he was already planning his next move.

 Because while Arturo was dead and Mark was crippled, the Vargas organization still had loyal soldiers who would seek revenge. The war wasn’t over. It was just entering a new phase. And Simon Hannah had never lost a war. Chapter 7. The reckoning begins. The news of Arturo Vargas’ death sent shock waves through Denver’s criminal underworld.

 By morning, every ambitious lieutenant and rival organization knew that the city’s most powerful crime family had been decapitated in a single night. The media called it a gang war, but those in the business understood the truth. Someone had declared war on the Vargas Empire and won the opening battle.

 Simon watched the coverage from a motel room in Aurora using a fake identity he’d maintained since his CIA days. The morning news showed aerial footage of the estate, police vehicles, and body bags being loaded into corner’s vans. 17 dead, including Colorado’s most feared crime boss. The investigation was being led by a joint task force of FBI agents and local detectives. But Simon knew they’d find nothing useful. His phone buzzed with a text message from an unknown number. We know who you are.

We’re coming. Simon deleted the message and began planning his response. The Vargas organization was wounded but not dead. Mark was alive and would inherit what remained of his father’s empire along with a burning desire for revenge.

 The mutilated heir would rally the remaining soldiers and come for the man who’d humiliated him. That was exactly what Simon was counting on. He drove back to his house in suburban Denver, using counter surveillance techniques to ensure he wasn’t followed. The neighborhood looked peaceful in the morning sunlight. Soccer moms driving to school pickup.

 Retirees working in their gardens. Teenagers walking dogs. Normal people living normal lives unaware that a war was being fought in their midst. Simon’s house had been searched while he was away. The intruders were professionals, but they’d left subtle traces that told him everything he needed to know.

 Furniture slightly out of place, dust patterns disturbed, electronic devices that had been examined and replaced. The Vargas organization had sent a technical team to gather intelligence about their enemy. They found nothing useful. Simon’s suburban identity was carefully constructed, but ultimately hollow.

 The real intelligence was stored in his memory and a few encrypted files that would be meaningless to anyone without the proper context. But the search attempt told him that Mark was thinking tactically despite his injuries. The air parent was gathering information about his father’s killer, preparing for a coordinated response rather than a blind assault that made him more dangerous than Simon had initially estimated.

Simon spent the afternoon reinforcing his home’s defenses. Hidden cameras were installed in the yard and surrounding neighborhood, connected to a monitoring system that would alert him to any unusual activity. Motion sensors and infrared detectors created a defensive perimeter that would be invisible to casual observation, but devastating to anyone attempting a covert approach.

 The basement arsenal was expanded to include heavier weapons, assault rifles, explosives, and equipment that could turn his suburban home into a fortress. If Mark wanted to bring the fight here, Simon would be ready for him. As evening approached, Simon received another text message.

 Tomorrow night, the warehouse district, come alone or we start killing civilians. The message was followed by a photo of a local elementary school during dismissal time. Children walking to buses, parents picking up their kids, teachers directing traffic. The threat was clear. Surrender or innocent people would die. Simon studied the photo and felt the familiar coldness settle in his chest.

 Mark had graduated from beating women to threatening children. The transformation from spoiled rich kid to desperate terrorist was complete, and it sealed his fate more thoroughly than any crime tribunal could. But it also created a tactical problem. Simon couldn’t risk civilian casualties, which meant he’d have to meet Mark’s terms and walk into what was obviously a trap.

 The warehouse district was perfect for an ambush. Isolated, full of hiding places, and far enough from residential areas that gunfire wouldn’t immediately draw police attention. Simon began planning for what would likely be his final confrontation with a Vargas organization. He had 24 hours to prepare for a battle that would determine whether Mark’s threats were idle or genuine.

 Either way, the heir to Denver’s most powerful crime family was about to learn what happened to men who threatened innocent children. The war that had begun with a father’s rage was about to end with a killer’s justice. That night, Simon made two phone calls. The first was to Harold Campos, his former CIA handler.

 The files you gave me were very helpful, Simon said without preamble. I’m glad to hear it. Are your security assessment concerns resolved? Almost, but I wanted you to know that there might be some cleanup required in the next 48 hours. Harold was quiet for a moment. He’d worked with Simon long enough to understand what cleanup meant in this context.

 Anything that might require federal attention, possibly, but only if certain parties escalate beyond acceptable parameters. Understood. I’ll make sure the right people are aware of potential developments. The second call was to Paige in Phoenix.

 Dad, is everything okay? I’ve been watching the news about that crime boss who got killed. Everything’s fine, Simon lied. But I need you to stay in Phoenix for another week or two, just until things settle down here. This is about Mark, isn’t it? About what happened to me? Simon didn’t answer directly. I love you, Paige. Remember that. Dad, you’re scaring me. What’s going on? Nothing you need to worry about. I’ll call you soon.

He hung up before she could ask more questions. If tomorrow night went badly, it would be the last time he heard his daughter’s voice. But if it went according to plan, she’d never have to fear Mark Vargas or anyone like him ever again.

 Simon spent the rest of the evening writing letters he hoped would never be read and making arrangements he hoped would never be needed. Then he began final preparations for a battle that would end with either his victory or his death. There would be no middle ground. Chapter 8, the final hunt. The warehouse district stretched across 40 acres of industrial decay, a graveyard of rusted metal and crumbling concrete that had once powered Denver’s manufacturing economy.

 Simon arrived at the specified location 30 minutes early, using the extra time to position himself for the coming confrontation. Mark had chosen the location well. The abandoned warehouses provided countless hiding places for snipers and assault teams, while the open spaces between buildings created killing fields where a lone man could be caught in crossfire from multiple directions.

 It was exactly the kind of terrain that favored defenders over attackers. But Simon had spent his career turning tactical disadvantages into strategic advantages. He moved through the shadows like a predator, using night vision equipment to map the enemy positions.

 Mark had brought at least 20 men, the remnants of his father’s organization, plus hired mercenaries who worked for whoever paid the best. Professional deployment, but not perfect. The sniper teams were positioned too close together, creating gaps in their overlapping fields of fire. The ground forces were concentrated near the central warehouse, leaving the flanks vulnerable to infiltration.

 Most critically, Mark himself was visible through thermal imaging, standing in the main building’s office area with what appeared to be a hostage. Simon studied the figure through his scope and felt his blood run cold. The hostage was a woman, young and blonde, not Paige. His daughter was safe in Phoenix, but someone meant to represent her.

 Mark was playing psychological games, trying to break Simon’s concentration by forcing him to relive his daughter’s trauma. It was a miscalculation that would cost the air everything. Simon began his assault at exactly midnight, starting with the perimeter guards.

 The suppressed rifle made less noise than a closing door, dropping centuries before they could raise an alarm. He moved between positions with practiced efficiency, using shadows and abandoned equipment to mask his approach. The first sniper team died without ever seeing their killer. Simon scaled a fire escape and entered their building through a broken window, eliminating both men with his tactical knife.

 Their radios and weapons joined his growing arsenal as he prepared for the next phase. The second team was more alert, but alertness was no match for superior training and equipment. Simon used a smoke grenade to obscure their vision, then moved through the haze like a phantom.

 Both snipers were down within 30 seconds, their positions compromised, and their fields of fire neutralized. By the time the main force realized they were under attack, half their number was already dead. Panicked radio chatter filled the airwaves as commanders tried to coordinate a response to an enemy they couldn’t locate or identify.

 Simon used their confusion to move closer to the central warehouse, eliminating stragglers and isolated guards with ruthless efficiency. Each kill was clean and precise. The work of a professional who’ spent decades perfecting the art of violence. The assault on the main building began with explosives. Simon had planted charges at strategic points during his infiltration, creating breaches that would allow him to attack from multiple angles simultaneously.

 The detonations shattered windows and punched holes in concrete walls, turning the warehouse into a maze of smoke and debris. The remaining guards opened fire wildly, spraying bullets at shadows and echoes while Simon moved through the chaos like a force of nature. His rifle spoke repeatedly, each shot finding its target with surgical precision.

 Bodies fell in corridors and storage areas, marking his path toward the office where Mark waited. The final approach was the most dangerous. Mark had positioned his remaining bodyguards in a defensive perimeter around the office, using furniture and equipment to create a fortified position.

 The hostage was visible through the office windows, bound to a chair with duct tape covering her mouth. Simon studied the situation and made his choice. Direct assault would risk the hostage’s life. But there was another option, one that required perfect timing and absolute precision. He began by eliminating the outer guards, using grenades and suppressing fire to drive the defenders deeper into their fortress.

 As panic spread through their ranks, Simon moved to his final position and prepared for the shot that would end everything. Mark Vargas was standing behind the hostage, using her as a human shield while he screamed threats and demands into a handheld radio. His face was pale with pain and terror. The mutilated hand wrapped in bandages that were stained with fresh blood.

 This was no longer the arrogant sadist who’d beaten Paige. This was a broken man driven by desperation and rage. Simon adjusted his scope for wind and distance, then squeezed the trigger. The bullet traveled 347 m in less than half a second, passing within inches of the hostage’s head before striking Mark between the eyes.

 The impact snapped his head back and dropped him instantly, ending the Vardis family line with a single perfectly placed shot. The hostage was unharmed, staring in shock at the body of her captor. Simon’s secondary shots eliminated the remaining bodyguards before they could process what had happened.

 Within moments, the warehouse was silent, except for the distant whale of approaching sirens. Someone had called the police, probably neighbors who’ heard the explosions and gunfire. Simon had perhaps 10 minutes before the first patrol cars arrived, followed by SWAT teams and federal agents who would lock down the entire area.

 He used the time to plant evidence that would complete the destruction of the Vargas organization. USB drives containing financial records and operational plans were placed where investigators would find them. Combined with Herald’s promised federal attention, the intelligence would be enough to prosecute every surviving member of the criminal enterprise. The hostage was freed and given instructions to wait for police arrival.

 She was traumatized but uninjured. Another innocent who’d been caught in Mark’s desperate bid for revenge. Simon disappeared into the night as the first patrol cars entered the warehouse district. Their flashing lights painting the industrial ruins in shades of red and blue. The war was over. The Vargas family was extinct. Their organization shattered and their surviving soldiers scattered to the winds.

 Justice had been served with interest, paid in blood, and delivered with precision. Simon Hannah vanished into the darkness, leaving behind only the echo of gunfire and the silence of the dead. The suburban retiree, who’d once lived a quiet life in Denver, was gone forever, replaced by something older and more dangerous.

 But for the first time in days, he could think about his daughter’s future without fear. Chapter nine. New beginnings. 3 weeks later, Simon stood in the arrival area of Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, watching passengers emerge from the gate where Paige’s flight had just landed. The bruises on her face had faded to yellow and green, but the haunted look in her eyes remained. She fell into his arms without speaking, holding him tight enough to crack ribs.

 They stayed that way for a long moment. A father and daughter reunited after a nightmare that had changed them both forever. “Is it over?” she whispered against his shoulder. “It’s over.” They drove back to Denver in comfortable silence, watching the landscape change from desert to mountains to the familiar suburban sprawl of home.

 The news had covered the warehouse district shootout extensively, calling it the final chapter in a gang war that had claimed dozens of lives. Mark Vargas was dead. His father’s organization dismantled and their surviving associates either in federal custody or fled to other states. The Vargas name had become synonymous with violence and failure.

 A cautionary tale about the price of crossing the wrong man’s family. “What happened to you out there?” Paige asked as they pulled into Simon’s driveway. He considered several answers before settling on the truth. I remembered who I used to be.

 And now they spent the evening talking about her plans to finish graduate school and his intention to sell the house and move somewhere new. Denver held too many memories now. Too many ghosts that would never let them live in peace. Where will we go? Paige asked. Wherever you want. I’m retired, remember? My schedule is completely flexible. She smiled for the first time in weeks. And Simon felt something settle in his chest that he’d thought was lost forever.

 His daughter was safe. Her tormentors were dead, and they had time to rebuild their relationship without the shadow of violence hanging over them. The phone rang as they were saying good night. Simon recognized Harold’s number and stepped outside to take the call. Cleanup is complete, his former handler reported.

 The task force rolled up 43 arrests based on the intelligence he provided. The DEA is calling it the most successful organized crime prosecution in Colorado history. Any loose ends? None that matter. The Vargas organization is extinct and their former territories have been absorbed by smaller, less ambitious groups. No one’s interested in seeking revenge for dead men.

 Simon felt the last of his tension fade away. Thank you. Don’t thank me. Thank your country’s taxpayers for funding 25 years of very expensive training. Harold paused. Any plans for the future? Spending time with my daughter? Maybe teaching her to shoot. Probably not a bad idea. Take care of yourself, Simon. The line went dead, ending Simon’s last official contact with the world he’d inhabited for most of his adult life.

 Tomorrow, he would begin the process of becoming someone new. Not the government assassin he’d been or the suburban retiree he’d pretended to be, but simply a father trying to make up for lost time. A month later, Simon and Paige moved to a small coastal town in Oregon where nobody knew their names or their history.

 Simon bought a modest house near the beach and started a legitimate security consulting business that specialized in helping domestic violence victims disappear from abusive relationships. The work was satisfying in ways that government service had never been. Each successful case represented a life saved, a family reunited, a future reclaimed from violence and fear.

 Simon found that his skills translated well to protective work, especially when applied to helping the innocent rather than eliminating the guilty. Paige transferred to Portland State University to complete her journalism degree, writing articles about social justice and criminal justice reform. She never asked about the details of what had happened in Denver.

 And Simon never volunteered the information. Some stories were better left untold. On quiet evenings, they would walk along the beach and talk about ordinary things, her classes, his clients, the weather, the future. normal conversation between a father and daughter who’d learned to value the simple gift of time spent together. Sometimes Simon would catch himself scanning the horizon for threats or checking the positions of other beachw walkers. Old habits died hard and there would always be a part of him that remained alert for danger. But as the

months passed, those moments became less frequent. He was learning to live in peace, even if peace was a skill that required as much practice as war. One evening, as they sat on their back porch watching the sunset paint the ocean in shades of gold and crimson, Paige asked the question he’d been expecting. Do you regret it? What you did to those men? Simon considered his answer carefully.

 I regret that it was necessary, but I don’t regret protecting you, even though it meant going back to that life. especially because of that. He reached over and squeezed her hand. Some things are worth any price. You’re one of them. Paige smiled and leaned against his shoulder, watching the waves roll endlessly toward shore.

 In the distance, a fishing boat was heading home, its lights twinkling like stars against the darkening sky. I love you, D. I love you, too. They sat in comfortable silence as night fell over the Pacific. A father and daughter finally at peace. The monsters were dead. The nightmares were over. And tomorrow would bring nothing more dangerous than coffee and conversation.

 For Simon Hannah, it was more than enough. Behind them, the house stood quiet and secure, its windows glowing with warm light. No guards patrolled the perimeter. No cameras watched the shadows. No weapons waited in hidden caches. This was home in the truest sense. A place where love mattered more than violence. Where the future held promise instead of threat.

 The war was over and the good guys had won. In the end, that was all that mattered. This is where our story comes to an end. Share your thoughts in the comment section. Thanks for your precious time. If you enjoyed this story, then please make sure you subscribe to this channel. That would help me a lot. Click on the video you see on the screen and I will see you