The MILFs Club: Special Delivery for my Aunt

Chapter 227: Chapter 227: Hidden Affiliations

"Yeah, I just left Ms. Gable’s place," said Alexander, steering the Tahoe with one hand as he kept the phone pressed to his ear. "Did you go see Aria today?"

"Yes, I did," said Isabella, her voice sounding tired but stable through the speaker. "I just got back to my apartment a little while ago. How did you find out?"

"Ms. Gable mentioned you were there when I asked about her," said Alexander, navigating the heavy SUV onto the city’s main avenue. "She told me Aria was knocked out, sleeping off the meds. Did you actually manage to see her before she went under?"

"Oh... yes, I did," said Isabella, her voice dipping into an uncharacteristically tight, guarded rhythm. "I sat with her for a little while before she drifted off. The medication they have her on is strong."

"How did she look?" asked Alexander, his brow furrowing as a lingering anxiety tightened in his chest. "Ms. Gable acted like everything was under control, but she seemed exhausted. Aria... she’s holding up okay, right?"

"She’s recovering, Alexander," said Isabella smoothly, shifting the focus with practiced ease. "You know how stubborn she is. She’s just fatigued from the whole ordeal. The doctors said the best thing for her right now is absolute quiet and zero stress, which is why Ms. Gable is keeping the house under such heavy lockdown."

"Yeah, I noticed the mini-army in the foyer," muttered Alexander, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the security team. "I just feel like everyone is hiding something from me. She wasn’t severely hurt, was she? When I pulled her out of that facility, she was conscious."

"It was a highly traumatic event, Alexander, both physically and mentally," said Isabella, her tone turning deliberately soft and reassuring to throw him off the scent. She remembered the sheer horror she had witnessed in that bedroom—the jagged stitches, the mutilated lines of Aria’s body, and the sobbing breakdown where Aria had begged her to never let Alexander see her this way. "Right now, she’s just focused on resting. Honestly, you shouldn’t overthink it. You did your part and saved her. Now we just have to let the medical team do theirs."

"I suppose you’re right," said Alexander, letting out a slow breath, though the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen. "I told Ms. Gable I’d drop by again tomorrow anyway."

"Actually, it might be better if you give her a couple of days," Isabella cut in quickly, a subtle note of urgency slipping into her voice before she smoothly masked it. "Ms. Gable mentioned they might be running some specialized medical evaluations tomorrow, and she really needs to be undisturbed. I can keep you updated if anything changes, alright?"

Alexander adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, a lingering, uneasy sensation clawing at the back of his mind. Something about Isabella’s tone felt off, but he forced himself to shake it off. If it weren’t for the fact that he trusted both her and Ms. Gable with Aria’s safety, he would have suspected they were holding her captive against her will. He exhaled a long breath, actively pushing the paranoid thoughts down; overanalyzing a situation without concrete data was a waste of mental energy.

He glanced down at the glowing dashboard clock. It was already 9:00 PM. There was still a tight window of time to squeeze in a quick operational contract before he had to report to the training facilities to meet Stephen.

Alexander reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed his encrypted phone, and booted up the secure TMC interface. He bypassed the locked premium tabs and zeroed in on the low-tier prestige board, rapidly scrolling until a simple, straightforward contract caught his eye.

Contract Type: Low-Tier Enforcement / Interdiction

Payout: $10,000 USD

Target/Objective: "Romantic Dinner" — Intercept a mid-level corporate defector during a private date at a secluded downtown bistro.

Special Instruction: Direct visual operational security required. Use a mask.

Alexander checked the real-time GPS the destination was less than ten minutes away from his current position. The mask requirement was a bit of an annoyance, and he didn’t have the luxury of time to drive back to a secure safehouse to dig through his gear.

Needing an immediate solution, he pulled the heavy silver Tahoe into the parking lot of a late-night, 24-hour convenience store. He strode down the central aisles, ignoring the food and beverage sections until he reached a small, dusty shelf dedicated to cheap seasonal toys and party supplies.

His eyes settled on a rigid plastic, brightly painted children’s mask shaped like a cartoon brown bear. It was cheap, absurd, and out of place for a lethal TMC asset—which made it perfect for throwing off any facial recognition algorithms.

He tossed a few dollars onto the counter, grabbed the plastic bear mask, and walked back out.

Alexander guided the heavy silver Tahoe into the dark alleyway overlooking the restaurant’s private exit lane, keeping his headlights cut. He checked the live on his phone; the digital tracking node was moving steadily across the screen. Within seconds, a sleek, white executive sedan pulled out of the underground parking structure matching the exact description provided in the contract file.

Alexander didn’t want to waste another second. He popped the center console compartment, grabbed his gun, and checked the chamber with a crisp metallic slide. He slipped the elastic band of the cheap plastic brown bear mask over his face, threw the door open, and stepped directly into the cool night air.

He walked with a calm, unhurried stride right toward the entrance lane of the restaurant blocking the path of the oncoming sedan.

Through the illuminated windshield, the corporate defector caught sight of the large, imposing figure stepping out from the shadows wearing a cartoonish children’s mask. The man let out a mocking scoff unbothered. "Who the hell is this lunatic?" muttered the target to himself, reaching for his gear shift. "Probably just another brain-fried drug addict looking for a handout."

Alexander brought his right hand up in a single, fluid motion.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Five deafening cracks shattered the quiet street in rapid succession. The first two rounds punched through the reinforced windshield, spiderwebbing the glass into a thousand white fractures, while the remaining three rounds drilled directly into the defector’s chest and throat with precision.

The target’s body went limp, his boot slipping off the brake pedal and slumping hard against the steering wheel. The white sedan continued rolling forward under its own remaining momentum, veering sharply off the lane before crashing into a concrete retaining wall with a heavy, crunching thud.

Without even pausing to inspect the wreckage, Alexander calmly turned on his heel and walked toward his silver Tahoe, slipping the pistol into his waistband as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.