Chapter 1: Striker
**This story does include language, violence, sexual situations, and references to assault. Please be advised.**
As I walk through the quiet neighborhood, I pull my leather jacket tighter around me. Despite the hustle and bustle of city life in New York, this area is a long-forgotten section that law enforcement likes to forget exists. Not that I blame them. If only I could forget as easily as they have. My only consolation is the certainty that I, Guy “Striker” Arteaga, will not be a product of my upbringing. Why? This is Gringoire Avenue, and Hangman’s Alley is the place that reared me, spit me out like day-old bread, and tried to kill my ass one too many times. I owe my survival to my mother. Today, I want to repay her for that sacrifice. Today, I aim to save her. I credit my escape from the gang to her determination. The initiation into this life isn’t easy. There are levels, and each of them makes boot camp appear weak. Perhaps that’s why I thrived in basic training. It was a vacation from the reality I wanted to keep away from. Throughout my journey, I always kept in mind that my mom had to experience the pain of losing her son while I was leaving this life behind. It wasn’t an easy decision for her. She understood that if she escaped with me, he would track her and bring us back. Most likely, my mom would have died. Instead, she removed me and covered her tracks. She’s the primary reason for me being here, facing the door that holds the man I’ll never acknowledge as my father, regardless of any shared blood. I’ve grown up and am not afraid to confront Chet Arteaga and make him accountable for the countless lives he’s taken. In all honesty, he could have hunted me. He had plenty of power to find me, but he didn’t. I have no idea why, and to be honest, I couldn’t care less.
The windows in the surrounding houses have a foreboding presence. The closed blinds and curtains cause them to look alone and afraid, but that’s where their deception ends. There are eyes peeking through the darkness. I sense them on my back. It’s enough to raise the hair on my arms, not from my fear, but theirs. My face on its own is enough for the residents to identify me, a face that closely resembles the killer inside. What will happen when Chet Arteaga sees his long-forgotten son? Will that long-forgotten son be the shameful mess his father expects him to be, or be the son his father can be proud of? Evil must exist within the son who resembles his father so much, right? It doesn’t matter. To those in hiding, I’m placing a death sentence on my head. I can’t help but snort at the irony. They assume my time on this earth is limited. Honestly, he would pull the trigger on my ass, but he’s not stupid. Neither am I. Eyes have been trailing me since the moment I stepped off the plane to make my way into his territory. I made sure of it. And we both know one thing. He can’t touch me. I’m too important to the government. My death can’t be discarded like the countless deaths before me. He’s the kind of man with a special place in hell, and let’s just say hell won’t be kind to him.
