Chapter 1 A Cage of Despair

My name is Marcus Kane.

Seven years ago, on that rainy night, the CIA labeled me a "traitor." From that moment on, I became a ghost hunted by the whole world.

Now, I live in a run-down apartment in East London, making a living through underground boxing matches.

Looking at hell across the ocean through an encrypted network.

On the screen, five-year-old Sofia is curled up in the deepest part of an iron cage. Her little face is as pale as paper, and her lips are bloodless. Leukemia has been tormenting her for three years, but what is truly killing her is not the disease itself.

It was that viper-like woman.

Victoria Belmont was lounging in an Italian leather sofa, holding a bottle of life-saving medication. In front of the camera, she slowly poured the liquid onto the floor.

"You little bastard, your traitorous father will never dare to come back to save you," she said with a sneer to the iron cage, "because once he sets foot on American soil, it's certain death."

My fingernails are deeply embedded in my palm.

idiot.

She had no idea that inside the safe of that dilapidated apartment was a specially made satellite phone. It was my only means of communication with the "Shadow" mercenary organization. For seven years, I had never dared to touch it because "Shadow" had been designated a terrorist organization by the United Nations. If I used it, the global intelligence network would be able to pinpoint my location.

FBI agent Smith once warned me, "As long as you don't contact those terrorists, we won't touch your family."

But now, watching my daughter dying in the iron cage, I've begun to question these so-called "rules".

The screen switches to another view.

My wife, Isabella, stood before the altar of the Notre-Dame Basilica, her white wedding dress brimming with tears, yet she dared not defy them. Vincent Moretti stood beside her, a smug smile plastered on his plump face.

"Would you like to marry Vincent Moretti?" the priest asked.

Isabella's voice trembled: "I..."

"She is willing," Godfather Antonio Moretti answered for her. "This is a marriage between two families, sacred and inviolable."

Applause erupted. The media snapped photos frantically, no one caring about the despair in the bride's eyes.

I turned off the screen and walked towards the safe.

The satellite phone lay there silently, like a ticking time bomb. I reached out my hand, then stopped.

There are other ways.

There must be other ways.

I sat back down at my computer and opened another encrypted channel. Sofia's medical records showed that her white blood cell count had dropped below the danger level. Without medication, she had at most three days to live.

Three days.

I called a law firm in New York. Thompson was the best lawyer I could find, specializing in government cases.

"Thompson, I need your help."

"Marcus? Damn it, are you crazy? Contacting me with this number?" Thompson's voice was filled with panic.

"My daughter is dying. I need you to apply for an emergency habeas corpus."

"You know this is impossible. You're a wanted traitor, no judge would..."

"I'll give you one million."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.

"Where's the evidence?"

"I will send it to you. Victoria Belmont deliberately cut off my daughter's medical supplies; this is attempted murder."

"I'll give it a try. But Marcus, you have to understand, once I submit these documents, the FBI will know you're still alive and still monitoring your family."

"I know."

I hung up the phone and began organizing the evidence: CCTV footage, medical records, Victoria's bank transfer records. I'd been secretly collecting these for seven years.

Then I logged into the Swiss bank's system. My account showed a balance of $42 million. But when I tried to transfer the money, a red warning popped up on the screen: the account had been frozen by the FBI.

certainly.

They never intended to give me any chance to turn things around.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. I quickly drew my pistol and looked through the peephole at a middle-aged man in an expensive suit.

Victor Calabria.

The owner of Europe's largest gambling syndicate. He's also my "employer" for the past seven years.

I opened the door.

"Kane, you look terrible." Victor walked into the room, looking around the dilapidated apartment. "I heard your daughter is very ill?"

What do you want?

"Let's get straight to the point, I like that." Victor sat on the sofa, lighting a cigar. "You still owe me 3 million euros for match-fixing. There are three fights at the Rome underground boxing ring this weekend. You have to lose all three."

"I need money to treat my daughter's illness."

"Then you'd better listen even more." Victor sneered. "You think I don't know what you were doing? Contacting a lawyer? Ha! You're so naive, a former CIA agent. You think the law can save your daughter?"

I clenched my fist.

"In this world, there are only two powers: money and violence. And you, right now, have neither." Victor stood up. "So you can only continue to be our money-making tool. Obediently lose the match, and I'll give you enough money to maintain your daughter's basic treatment."

What if I refuse?

"Then your daughter will stop taking her medication tonight." Victor flicked away his cigar ash. "The choice is yours, former underground boxing champion. Oh no, I should call you 'Loser' Marcus now."

He walked towards the door, then turned back and said, "Tomorrow night at eight o'clock, third basement level of the Colosseum. Don't disappoint me."

The door closed.

I walked back to the safe and stared at the satellite phone.

If I contact the Shadows, they can assemble an army within 48 hours. But that would also mean I'd go from being a traitor to an international terrorist, hunted down by the entire world.

More importantly, Smith's warning still echoed in their ears: "As long as you don't contact those terrorists, we won't touch your family."

I closed the safe.

There is still time.

There are other ways.

On the screen, Sophia started coughing up blood again. She leaned weakly against the bars of the cage, whispering, "Mommy...it hurts so much..."

Isabella was locked in another room and couldn't hear her daughter's cries for help.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Tomorrow, I'm going to Rome.

Go be a loser.