2026-01-28 00:10:42
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LET'S MAKE IT MEMORABLE
The Port of Newark at midnight was a graveyard of steel and shadow. Container Yard Seven sprawled across twenty acres of industrial wasteland, towers of shipping containers rising like rusted monuments to commerce long abandoned. Sodium lights flickered at irregular intervals, casting pools of sick yellow against the pervasive darkness. The air tasted of salt and diesel and something metallic that might have been fear.Grayson Wells arrived alone as demanded, his footsteps echoing across cracked asphalt. Every instinct screamed trap, but instinct was a luxury he couldn't afford anymore. Sarah and Emma were somewhere in Brotherhood hands, terrified, depending on his compliance. The tracking devices in his molars transmitted his location constantly—James would be monitoring, coordinating whatever rescue the depleted resistance could mount. But that would take time. Hours, maybe days. And children didn't have days.Twenty Crimson Brotherhood operatives materialized from the shadows like
WALKING INTO DARKNESS
The war room was Grayson's apartment converted into command center—dining table covered in maps and intelligence files, laptops running facial recognition and tracking software, weapons laid out on the coffee table like surgical instruments. Grayson assembled everyone he had left. Ava stood beside him, her face set in grim determination. James worked three computers simultaneously, pulling data from every source available. Harding arrived within the hour, still wearing his suit from whatever meeting he'd abandoned. Catherine appeared on video link from Hong Kong, her image on the largest monitor, the skyline visible behind her. Natasha came last, carrying a duffel bag full of equipment and wearing the expression of someone preparing for war."The Crimson Brotherhood operates in twelve countries across three continents," James began his briefing, pulling up organizational charts. "Estimated thirty thousand members worldwide. They're not just assassins—they're a paramilitary organizatio
YOU CAN SURRENDER NOW
For three months, there was peace. Actual, genuine peace—the kind Grayson had stopped believing existed. He and Ava built a quiet life in their modest apartment, waking up without checking for threats, going to sleep without weapons under their pillows. They taught self-defense classes twice a week at Sacred Heart Shelter, showing vulnerable people how to protect themselves. Grayson consulted for Harding's new private security firm, advising on tactical operations without having to execute them personally. They cooked meals together, watched movies, argued about which restaurant to try for dinner. Normal, wonderfully mundane existence.They attended Gerald Reed's funeral on a gray October morning. He'd died peacefully in witness protection—liver failure from decades of alcoholism finally catching up. The service was small, private, attended by federal marshals who maintained security even at the gravesite. Gerald's will had been read the week before. He'd left everything—what little
THE ULTIMATE TRIAL
Six months after the Castellano estate explosion, the federal courthouse in Lower Manhattan overflowed with media, spectators, and security personnel. Elena Castellano's trial had become the most-watched criminal proceeding in decades. The charges read like a catalog of nightmares: terrorism, conspiracy to commit mass murder, orchestrating international assassinations, arms trafficking, money laundering, racketeering. Forty-seven separate counts, each carrying maximum sentences.The prosecution had built a case so overwhelming that even Elena's expensive legal team—seven attorneys from three countries—couldn't find meaningful cracks in the evidence.Vanessa Reed took the stand on day three, her appearance dramatically different from the socialite who'd married Grayson years ago. Prison had hollowed her, the witness protection program had stripped away her remaining vanity. She wore a simple gray suit, no makeup, her hair pulled back severely."Mrs. Reed, please describe your relations
TIRED OF LOSING PEOPLE
The ruins of the Castellano estate smoldered under the rising sun, transformed from fortress to graveyard in ninety seconds of calculated destruction. Emergency crews from three counties converged on the scene—fire trucks, ambulances, search and rescue teams with dogs and thermal imaging equipment. The initial casualty count was devastating: fifty confirmed dead, another thirty missing and presumed buried in the rubble.Grayson pulled himself from beneath a collapsed section of the outer wall, his ears ringing so loudly he could barely hear his own breathing. Vision blurred by dust and blood—his own blood from a scalp wound, though he couldn't remember receiving it. Every movement sent pain lancing through his ribs where the shockwave had slammed him into the ground.But he was alive. And he needed to find Ava.He stumbled through the debris field, calling her name through vocal cords scraped raw by smoke inhalation. Bodies lay scattered—some identifiable as Matteo's men or federal ag
TOWARDS THE RUIN
The convoy raced north through pre-dawn darkness—six armored vehicles carrying sixty fighters total. Grayson and Ava rode in the lead vehicle with James coordinating communications. Catherine and Natasha commanded the second vehicle with their strike team. Matteo's heaviest hitters filled the third and fourth. Harding's federal agents brought up the rear in unmarked tactical transports, officially on "training exercises" that happened to coincide with this operation."Estate has approximately two hundred guards according to satellite thermal imaging," Harding briefed over secure radio from his vehicle. "Military-grade defenses throughout. Surface-to-air missile batteries on the main building's roof, automated turrets covering approach vectors, reinforced walls rated against RPG strikes. The Castellano family built this place as a fortress during the Cold War when they thought the government might come after them.""How do we breach that level of defense?" Matteo asked from his vehicle
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