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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Brooklyn street was cordoned off with yellow tape fluttering in the chill December wind, a grim barrier against the gawkers clustering on the sidewalks. Smoke still curled lazily from the ruins, the acrid stench of burnt wood and melted plastic hanging thick in the air like a shroud. Fire trucks idled nearby, their hoses coiled like sleeping serpents, while uniformed officers directed traffic around the block. The house, or what remained of it, stood as a blackened husk, windows shattered into jagged maws, the roof partially caved in like a defeated giant.Detective Donnell Winston stood at the edge of the debris field, his short red mahogany hair ruffled by the breeze, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips as he surveyed the wreckage. His brown eyes, sharp and weary from years on the job, flicked over the soot-streaked walls and the twisted metal of what might have been a front door. Beside him, Aubrey Wilburn scribbled notes on a battered notepad, his sandy brown hair catchin
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The boardroom at Hendrix Industries headquarters was a temple of corporate power, all gleaming chrome accents and polished walnut panels that screamed old money and unyielding authority. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Manhattan’s steel canyons, the December sun glinting off skyscrapers like diamonds scattered across a gray velvet sky. The air hummed with the subtle tension of a company on the brink, shares fluctuating, whispers of takeovers circulating like smoke in the vents. Austen Hendrix presided at the head of the long conference table, his ocean-blue eyes steely under furrowed brows, graying blonde hair impeccably combed despite the invisible storm raging within. Flanking him were the shareholders: Bernice Tantanam with her sharp bob and sharper gaze, a few silver-haired veterans nursing coffees, and others scribbling notes on tablets. At the opposite end stood Axel Tantanam, mid-presentation, his dark brown hair gelled to perfection, hazel eyes alight wi
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The front door loomed like a threshold to hell. Anderson eased it open, rain lashing his face as he stepped onto the sagging porch. The street was a study in deception: quiet houses, glowing windows, but the vans across the way disgorged figures now—six, no seven—clad in black tactical gear, suppressed rifles glinting wetly under the streetlamp.Two broke off, suits tailored sharp over body armor, advancing like wolves in wool. Anderson raised the Glock, sighting center mass. “I want to talk to The Man,” he called, voice steady despite the storm. “Now. Face to face.”The lead suit smirked, rain beading on his bald pate. “No talks. The boss says you’re done.” His partner raised his MP5, the suppressor a black maw.The first shot whizzed from the muzzle, a subsonic crack that punched through Anderson’s shoulder, spinning him into the doorframe. Pain bloomed hot and immediate, blood soaking his sleeve, but he fired back—one in the chest, one in the throat. The man in the suit crumpled,
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The kitchen in the Rogers’ modest Brooklyn brownstone hummed with the mundane rhythm of evening chores, the kind that Anderson clung to like lifelines on stormy seas. Fluorescent light from the single bulb overhead cast harsh shadows across the chipped Formica counters, illuminating stacks of mismatched plates and the faint steam rising from the sink. Outside, the December drizzle pattered against the window like impatient fingers, blurring the streetlights into hazy orbs. He stood at the sink, sleeves of his faded army-green Henley rolled to his elbows, scrubbing a casserole dish with more force than necessary. The hot water scalded his hands, but he welcomed the burn—it grounded him, kept the ghosts at bay. Emilia’s silence from the dining table was louder than any argument, a wall of teenage resentment that had thickened over the past weeks. Dinner had been a battlefield of unspoken barbs: her fork scraping against her plate like nails on a chalkboard, his attempts at conversation
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Reno, you spineless idiot,” Austen Hendrix growled, his voice a low rumble that built like thunder on the horizon. “How could you? Five percent—five percent—handed over to that snake on a silver platter? Do you have any idea what this does to us?”The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Austen Hendrix’s study, casting long shadows across the Persian rug like accusing fingers. The room, a sanctum of polished mahogany and leather-bound tomes, smelled of aged scotch and the faint, acrid bite of cigar smoke that lingered from last night’s futile strategizing. Austen sat behind his massive desk, the telephone receiver clamped to his ear like a vise, his ocean-blue eyes narrowed to slits of fury. The vein at his temple throbbed visibly, a telltale sign of the storm brewing beneath his salt-and-pepper hair.On the other end of the line, Reno Valdez’s voice cracked like brittle glass, laced with the desperation of a man who’d stared into the abyss and blinked f
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Escalade bolted through the city streets, the tinted windows shielding Kace and Autumn from the bustling world outside. Snow flurries had given way to a steady drizzle, turning the asphalt slick and reflective under the streetlights. Kace stared out at the passing buildings, his mind racing from the call with Anderson. It had been years since St. Maria, since the betrayal that shattered his military career, and now this—out of nowhere. Autumn sat beside him, the briefcase from the Valdez meeting resting on her lap, her short spiky hair still slightly disheveled from the wind. She glanced at him, her narrow green eyes curious, breaking the silence.“Why did you show Reno mercy?” she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the engine. “Considering what he did—the trafficking, the assaults. You had him dead to rights. Why let him keep even two percent?”Kace turned to her, his green eyes steady, a faint smile playing on his lips that didn’t reach them. “I never showed him m
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