The Ghost and the Christmas Miracle
The snow fell in thick, wet clumps across Vancouver's east side, turning the streets into a treacherous maze of slush and ice. Billy Wei's Honda Civic fishtailed slightly as he took the corner onto East Hastings too fast, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The dashboard clock glowed 11:47 PM—he was almost 30 minutes late.
His phone sat silent in the cup holder now, but he could still hear Amy's voice from an hour ago, raw with anger and exhaustion. "It's Christmas Eve, Billy. Christmas fucking Eve." The memory of Sophie's face—confused, sleepy, clutching that card she'd made—twisted something deep in his chest. Two years old. She'd waited up for him.
But Mitchell had called. When Mitchell Chen called, you came.
The house loomed ahead, a renovated Craftsman that looked respectable enough from the outside. Billy pulled into the circular driveway, noting the other cars already present. Tommy's Escalade. Ray's BMW. The whole crew was here, which meant this wasn't just another collection run. Mitchell had sounded tense on the phone, paranoid even. Something about the Mexicans making moves.
On Christmas Eve, Billy thought bitterly.
He killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching the snow accumulate on his windshield. Through the front windows of the house, he could see warm light spilling out, the kind of domestic glow that reminded him of his own apartment. Where Amy was probably still awake, angry and hurt. Where Sophie slept with her new stuffed reindeer.
Billy checked his Glock 19, ensuring a round was chambered, then tucked it back into his waistband beneath his jacket. Three years of this. Three years of telling himself it was temporary, that the money was worth it. Rent. Daycare. Amy's nursing school tuition. Better than construction work, he'd said. Better than breaking his back for minimum wage.
But lately, when Sophie looked at him with those wide, trusting eyes, the weight pressed down harder.
He stepped out into the cold and to Mitchell's front door. It was ever-so-slightly ajar, which struck him as odd immediately. Mitchell was paranoid about security, always had the door sedured and at least two guys posted. Billy pushed it open slowly, his hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.
The entry hall stretched before him, all polished hardwood and expensive artwork that Mitchell had probably bought to launder money. And there, sprawled across the floor near the coat closet, was Danny Cho—one of Mitchell's regular guards. Billy's breath caught. Danny wasn't moving, his body positioned awkwardly, one arm twisted beneath him.
Billy drew his Glock, the familiar weight suddenly feeling inadequate. His heart hammered against his ribs as he moved forward, keeping his back to the wall. Danny's chest rose and fell shallowly—unconscious, not dead. A small mercy, though Billy couldn't imagine what had put him down. Danny was ex-military, trained and alert. Taking him out without a sound took serious skill.
The house was too quiet. No voices, no music, none of the usual sounds of Mitchell's operation. Just the soft hum of the heating system and Billy's own ragged breathing. He moved deeper into the house, past the living room where Mitchell usually held court, toward the back offices where the real business happened.
Another body in the hallway. This time it was Ray Martinez, slumped against the wall near the bathroom. Billy checked him quickly—also unconscious, a dark bruise blooming on his temple. Professional work. Someone had moved through this house like a ghost, taking down trained men without raising an alarm.
Billy's mouth went dry. He should run. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around and get out while he still could. But he kept moving forward, drawn by a sick need to know, to understand what had happened here.
The third body stopped him cold.
Tommy Nguyen lay face-down in the hallway leading to Mitchell's office, and this time there was no mistaking it. The back of Tommy's head was a ruin of blood and bone, two neat entry wounds visible even in the dim light. The carpet beneath him was soaked dark, still spreading. Billy's stomach lurched. He'd known Tommy since high school, had been at his wedding two years ago.
A sound reached him then—a voice, choked and desperate. Mitchell's voice, coming from the office ahead. Billy crept forward, his Glock raised, every nerve ending on fire. The office door stood half-open, light spilling out into the hallway.
"Please," Mitchell was saying, his voice cracking with terror Billy had never heard from him before. "Please, I can pay you whatever they're paying. Double it. Triple it."
Billy reached the doorway and peered around the frame, and the scene before him seemed to freeze in crystalline clarity.
Mitchell Chen knelt in the center of his office, hands raised, his expensive suit rumpled and stained with sweat. Around him, scattered across the floor like broken dolls, were the rest of his inner circle. Billy recognized them all—Chen's lieutenants, his enforcers, the men who'd made his operation run. Some were clearly dead, their bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Others might have been unconscious like Danny and Ray, but Billy couldn't tell from this angle.
And standing over Mitchell, dominating the room despite her slender frame, was a woman.
She wore a long red coat that fell to her knees, unbuttoned to reveal a form-fitting black bodysuit beneath that looked more like tactical gear than fashion. Black boots, practical and silent. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, revealing sharp, elegant features that might have been beautiful in other circumstances. But it was her eyes that held Billy frozen—dark and cold and utterly devoid of mercy.
In her right hand, she held a compact machine pistol, some kind of modified MP5K with a suppressor attached. The weapon was pointed directly at Mitchell's head with the steady confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.
"I don't want your money," the woman said, her voice carrying a faint accent Billy couldn't quite place. Mandarin, maybe, or Cantonese. "I'm not here for negotiation."
"Then what?" Mitchell sobbed. "What do you want?"
"Justice," she said simply. "For the girls you've trafficked. For the families you destroyed. For the communities you poisoned." She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a scientist examining an insect. "Did you really that you could do what you've done and simply continue?"
"I'm just a businessman," Mitchell pleaded. "I provide a service—"
"You're a slaver and a murderer," the woman interrupted, her voice never rising above conversational level. "You sold thirteen-year-old girls from rural Bolivia. You promised them jobs and education, then locked in brothels and shot full of your product until they couldn't remember their own names."
Billy's blood ran cold. He'd heard rumors, whispers about that side of Mitchell's operation, but he'd never wanted to believe them. He'd told himself he was just doing collections, just moving product, nothing to do with the darker aspects of the business.
"That wasn't me," Mitchell said desperately. "That was the Colombians, the Russians—"
"You facilitated it. You profited from it." The woman's finger tightened on the trigger. "And now you pay for it."
The suppressed shots were barely louder than coughs—two quick pops that echoed in the sudden silence. Mitchell's body jerked twice, then crumpled forward onto the expensive Persian rug, blood pooling beneath him.
Billy gasped before he could stop himself, the sound escaping his throat like a wounded animal. The woman whirled with inhuman speed, the machine pistol tracking toward the doorway, toward him. Billy raised his own Glock, his hands shaking, and suddenly they were locked in a standoff—two armed strangers pointing weapons at each other across a room full of corpses.
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For a long moment, neither moved. Billy could see her evaluating him, those cold eyes taking in every detail—his cheap jacket, his trembling hands, the way he held his weapon like someone who'd been trained but never really wanted to use it. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to remember his training, but all he could think about was Sophie's face, Amy's voice, the Christmas tree they'd decorated together last week.
"You're late," the woman said finally, her weapon never wavering. "Billy Wei, correct? Low-level collections, occasional enforcement. Three years with Chen's organization. No major crimes on your record beyond the drug distribution."
The fact that she knew his name sent ice through his veins. "Who are you?"
"Someone who came to kill Mitchell Chen and his lieutenants," she said calmly. "The others—the guards, the muscle—they just got in the way. I gave them the chance to walk away. Most didn't take it."
Billy's eyes flicked to the bodies on the floor, then back to her. "You killed them all."
"The ones who chose to fight, yes." She took a step closer, and Billy's finger tightened on his trigger. She noticed and stopped, a faint smile crossing her lips. "You're scared. Good. Fear keeps you alive. But you're also thinking about someone—I can see it in your eyes. Someone waiting for you."
"My daughter," Billy heard himself say. "And my girlfriend. It's Christmas Eve."
The woman's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those dark eyes. "Then you have a choice to make, Billy Wei. You can try to avenge your boss, and die here, on this floor, and your daughter will grow up without a father. Your girlfriend will spend Christmas morning identifying your body."
She paused, letting the words sink in.
"Or," she continued, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, "you can accept this as the Christmas miracle it is. You can lower your weapon, walk out that door, and go home to your family. You can hold your daughter and tell her you love her. You can be there for her first day of school, her graduation, her wedding. You can be the father she deserves."
Billy's hands shook harder. Mitchell was dead. Tommy was dead. The whole organization was decapitated in a single night. There would be chaos, power struggles, violence. But there would also be an opportunity—a chance to walk away, to leave this life behind before it consumed him completely.
"I came for Chen and his inner circle," the woman said. "You're not on my list, Billy. You're just a man who made bad choices trying to provide for his family. I understand that. But this is your only chance. Lower your weapon and walk away, or die here with the rest of them."
Billy thought of Sophie's card, the one Amy had mentioned. She'd made it herself, probably with crayons and construction paper, her little hands working so carefully to create something for him. He'd never even seen it. He'd chosen Mitchell's call over his daughter's gift.
Not anymore.
Billy lowered his Glock slowly, his hands still shaking. The woman watched him carefully, her weapon tracking his movements, ready to fire if he made any sudden moves. But Billy just tucked his gun back into his waistband and raised his hands.
"Smart choice," the woman said. She lowered her own weapon, though she kept it ready. "Go home, Billy Wei. Spend Christmas with your family. And when the police come asking questions, you tell them you were late, you found the bodies, you ran. You don't know anything about a woman in a red coat. Understand?"
Billy nodded, not trusting his voice.
"And Billy?" The woman's eyes hardened again. "This is your one chance to change. If I hear you've gone back to this life, if I hear you've hurt anyone, sold anything, facilitated any of the evil that Mitchell Chen represented—I'll come for you. And next time, there won't be a conversation."
"I'm done," Billy managed to say. "I swear. I'm done with all of this."
The woman studied him for another long moment, then nodded. "Then go. Before I change my mind."
Billy didn't need to be told twice. He backed out of the office, keeping his hands visible, then turned and ran. He stumbled over Ray's unconscious body, nearly fell over Danny in the entry hall, but he kept moving. The cold air hit him like a slap when he burst through the front door, snow swirling around him in the darkness.
He ran to his car, fumbled with his keys, and somehow got the engine started. His hands shook so badly he could barely grip the steering wheel, but he managed to back out of the driveway and onto the street. In his rearview mirror, he saw the house receding, warm light still glowing from the windows, no sign of the carnage within.
Billy made it two blocks before he had to pull over. His hands were shaking so violently he couldn't hold the wheel steady, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps that fogged the windshield. He put the car in park and gripped the steering wheel, trying to ground himself, but all he could see was Mitchell's face—the fear in his eyes, the way his voice had cracked when he begged. The bodies on the floor. Ray's twisted arm. The woman's cold, dark eyes as she'd aimed the gun at Billy's chest.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, but that made it worse. Behind his eyelids, he saw it all again. The blood. The stillness. How easily she'd moved through that house, how efficiently she'd ended lives. How close he'd come to being one of them.
His stomach lurched and he barely got the door open in time before he vomited into the snow. He stayed there, bent over, gasping, the cold air burning his throat. When the heaving finally stopped, he sat back, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. The snow fell steadily, already beginning to cover what he'd left on the ground.
Billy sat there for a long time, watching the snow accumulate on his windshield, listening to the tick of the engine. Slowly, gradually, his breathing steadied. His hands stopped shaking quite so badly. He started the car again and pulled back onto the street.
The drive home felt endless and dreamlike. The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car passing in the opposite direction, headlights blurred by falling snow. Billy drove on autopilot, his mind somewhere else entirely—replaying the woman's words, the choice she'd given him, the weight of Sophie's card in his pocket. The familiar landmarks of his neighborhood appeared and disappeared like images in a fog.
When he finally pulled into his apartment complex, he sat in the car with the engine running, staring up at his building. Third floor, second window from the left. The lights were on. Amy was still awake. He could see the faint glow of the Christmas tree through the curtains.
He turned off the engine. The sudden silence felt enormous.
Billy sat there in the dark, watching his breath fog the air, trying to figure out how to walk through that door. How to face Amy. What to say. What he could possibly say that would make her understand without telling her what he'd seen, what he'd almost become part of. His hands found the steering wheel again, gripping it like an anchor.
Finally, he got out of the car. The cold helped. The snow on his face helped. He climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, and stood outside his door for a long moment with his hand on the knob. He could hear the faint sound of the television inside. Normal life. His life. The one he'd almost thrown away.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
The apartment was dark except for the glow of the Christmas tree in the corner, its colored lights casting soft shadows across the living room. Amy sat on the couch, still awake, her arms crossed. She looked up when he entered, her expression hardening.
"Billy—" she started, anger in her voice.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke. "Amy, I'm so sorry. You're right. About everything. I'm done. I'm done with Mitchell, with all of it. I'm done."
Amy's expression shifted from anger to confusion, then to something else as she really looked at him. She stood up slowly. "Billy, what happened? You look—"
"I can't explain it all right now," he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, hollow and distant. "But I need you to know—I'm done. I'm getting out. I'm going to find legitimate work, something clean. I'm going to be here for you and Sophie. I'm going to be the father she deserves."
Amy moved closer, studying his face in the dim light. Her anger had evaporated, replaced by concern and something that looked like fear. "Billy, you're scaring me. What happened tonight?"
"Something that should have happened a long time ago," he said quietly. "I saw... I saw what this life leads to. Where it ends. And I can't—" His voice caught. "I can't do it anymore. I won't."
She searched his eyes for a long moment. Whatever she saw there—the truth of it, the finality—made her reach for his hand. "Okay," she said softly. "Okay."
"Can I see her?" he asked. "Please? I need to see her."
Amy nodded and led him to Sophie's room. The door was already open, and Billy stepped inside quietly. His daughter lay in her toddler bed, her stuffed reindeer clutched to her chest, her face peaceful in sleep. On the nightstand beside her bed was a piece of construction paper folded in half—her card. Billy picked it up carefully and opened it.
Inside, in crayon, she'd drawn three stick figures—a tall one, a medium one, and a small one, all holding hands. Above them, in Amy's handwriting helping Sophie's attempt, were the words: "I love you Daddy. Merry Christmas."
Billy's vision blurred. He set the card down gently and leaned over to kiss Sophie's forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of her baby shampoo. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, just hugged her reindeer tighter.
"I love you too, baby girl," he whispered. "I'm here now. I'm going to be here."
Amy stood in the doorway, watching him. When he turned to her, she opened her arms, and he went to her, holding her tight. They stood there in the hallway, wrapped in each other, while Sophie slept peacefully and the Christmas tree lights twinkled in the living room.
Billy pulled back just enough to look at Amy's face. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out Sophie's card, the one he'd been carrying all night. He held it in both hands, looking down at the crayon drawing—three stick figures holding hands—and then at the Christmas tree beyond, its lights reflecting in the dark window.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the city in white.
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If you enjoyed this story, you can read more about the mysterious killer in NUELOW Games' The Ghost of Hong Kong, available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.
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