The CEO Hired Ghost as Her Bodyguard

"Old man, I'm back."

Los Angeles International Airport.

Marshall Wright strode toward the exit. "We had a deal. After this job, I'm done for good."

A hoarse, smug laugh crackled through the phone.

"I know, I know. I know you bought yourself a private island in Hawaii two weeks ago. But I have to say—you're only twenty-seven. You want to retire already? What's that supposed to make me feel like? I'm seventy years old and still busting my ass out here."

"Shut up." Marshall lit a cigarette.

He took a deep drag and exhaled a plume of smoke. "What's the target this time?"

"According to reliable intel, Hawk Biotech has developed a new serum. It can drastically accelerate cell division and regeneration. This discovery has already caught the attention of major powers around the world. Your mission is simple: get the formula for that serum."

Marshall let out a disdainful snort. "Just a vial of serum? Is it really worth all this attention?"

"I've told you a thousand times—read more books. In theory, this serum can heal fatal wounds in minutes. Even worse, if you inject it into an ordinary person, it can forcibly enhance their physical abilities by three to five times."

Marshall's fingers, holding the cigarette, paused slightly.

"Now you understand why I called you, don't you?" the old man continued. "Hawk Technologies' stock has already skyrocketed to a hundred billion dollars. Russian FSB agents are already involved. The bounty on the dark web has hit fifty billion dollars—every lunatic on the planet is flooding into Los Angeles. Even top-tier African mercenary groups are learning English so they can infiltrate."

The old man's voice turned serious. "Marshall, I know you're the best. But this time, you don't have much time. I've already sent the basic intel on Hawk Technologies to your phone. Good luck."

"Wait, you old fox, this isn't what we agreed—"

Marshall didn't get to finish. The call ended.

"Damn it. That old bastard played me again."

Marshall sighed.

But when he thought about all the world's top forces converging on Los Angeles, a cold, excited smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

This job was going to be more interesting than any before.

Marshall opened his phone and checked the files the old man had sent.

"Hawk Technologies CEO? No name, no photo? This intel is cleaner than a blank sheet of paper." Marshall frowned. "Wait a second... that old bastard's last name is Hawk too. Is that a coincidence?"

Marshall shook his head and stopped thinking about it.

He opened his phone's banking app, planning to withdraw some cash at the airport.

A red warning flashed on the screen.

Marshall froze.

"Damn it. I forgot. My accounts are frozen in the U.S."

Which meant the King of Assassins was now flat broke.

Marshall muttered a curse under his breath.

He walked to the curb, pulled a wire from his pocket, and expertly picked the lock on a shared bike.

He swung his leg over and pedaled toward Hawk Technologies.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the ocean, inside an upscale café.

The seventy-year-old man stared at the satellite phone in his hand.

A cunning smile crossed his face as he muttered to himself, "Go ahead. Fight over it. When those idiots realize the King of Assassins is in Los Angeles too, they'll finally understand what true despair feels like."

Los Angeles. Downtown main road.

A black Maybach crept slowly through traffic.

In the back seat sat a woman.

She had long, light blonde hair with soft curls at the ends, a few loose strands falling near her collarbone.

Her eyes were a pale, icy blue, framed by long lashes. Her nose was straight, with a faint beauty mark beside her left nostril. A few barely visible freckles dotted her fair cheeks.

She wore a black dress that clung to her figure—full chest, narrow waist. The fabric traced the generous curves of her hips and thighs. When she crossed her legs, the hem rode up slightly, revealing a pale, slender calf and delicate ankle.

She slowly lifted her gaze toward the driver's seat.

"Why are we going so slow?"

The driver glanced helplessly into the rearview mirror. "Ms. Hawk, there's a man on a bicycle up ahead. He's riding slowly and weaving all over the road. There are cars on both sides—I can't pass him."

Katherine looked up through the windshield.

Sure enough, a man was riding a beat-up bike, drifting lazily down the center of the lane, blocking the Maybach's path.

Katherine's brow furrowed.

"Honk at him. I don't have time to waste on someone who doesn't follow traffic laws."

The driver immediately laid on the horn. The sharp blare echoed down the street.

But Marshall, up ahead, didn't react at all.

He kept riding, scanning the buildings on either side of the road.

"Los Angeles has changed so much," Marshall muttered to himself. "I remember when I was a kid, there weren't nearly this many cars. Now it's turned into a mega-city."

Marshall was an orphan. He'd grown up on the streets of Los Angeles, fighting stray dogs for scraps of food.

Later, the old man had taken him overseas.

After ten years of blood and rain, he'd gone from a street beggar to the King of Assassins—a name that made the entire underground world tremble.

Now, he was back.

Marshall was completely lost in childhood memories. He tuned out the honking behind him entirely.

Inside the Maybach.

"Ms. Hawk, he's still not moving," the driver said anxiously.

Katherine glanced at her watch. Her expression grew even colder. "Go around him. If there's contact, I'll cover the damages."

"Understood."

The driver pressed the gas. The Maybach surged forward, using its massive frame to force Marshall toward the curb.

Just then, the traffic light ahead turned red.

Marshall had been out of the country for over a decade, but he still followed basic traffic laws. He squeezed the brakes, and the bike stopped instantly at the crosswalk.

The next second—

The driver had no time to react. The Maybach's front end slammed hard into the bike's rear wheel.

Bang!

The impact sent Marshall and the bike flying.

But mid-air, Marshall's body displayed astonishing flexibility. Like a cat, he twisted in the air, flipped once, and landed smoothly on both feet.

Inside the Maybach, Katherine and the driver both froze.

"What the hell? How do you even drive?"

A flash of fury crossed Marshall's eyes. He strode toward the Maybach, his entire body radiating danger.

He pounded on the rear window.

"You better have a good explanation for this. Otherwise, this car's not leaving here today."

The driver broke into a cold sweat. Then, the rear window slowly rolled down.

Katherine stared coldly at Marshall through the glass. She opened her designer handbag and pulled out a thick stack of cash.

She held it out the window. "Take the money. Move."

Marshall looked at the bills and let out a bitter laugh.

"You think money solves everything?"

Katherine's frown deepened. Her voice was emotionless. "Not enough?"

She pulled out another stack and tossed it out the window. The bills scattered at Marshall's feet.

"That's more than enough to buy your piece of junk."

In Katherine's eyes, this man was just another street hustler trying to scam her for a payout.

She had a hundred-billion-dollar deal to handle. She didn't have time for this.

The light ahead turned green.

"Drive," Katherine ordered coldly.

The driver floored it. The Maybach roared to life and accelerated away from the scene.

Marshall stood there.

He watched the taillights disappear into the distance, then looked down at the cash scattered on the ground. His gaze turned unfathomably deep.