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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
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The black-tinted Escalade glided through the artery of Midtown Manhattan like a predator in the concrete jungle, its engine a low growl amid the cacophony of honking taxis and pedestrian chatter. Snow flurries danced in the December chill, the first whisper of winter dusting the sidewalks on the crisp morning. Kace Cameron sat in the back, his jet-black hair impeccably styled, green eyes fixed on the tablet in his lap, reviewing the dossier on Reno Valdez. Beside him, Autumn Wilson adjusted her fitted black coat, her short spiky hair framing a face set in quiet determination, narrow green eyes scanning the street for tails. The briefcase in her lap—sleek, unassuming—held the leverage that could topple empires.“Valdez’s building is a fortress,” Kace said, his voice a measured baritone. “Security’s tight, but the files will do the talking. You stay back, look the part. Imposing, but silent.”Autumn nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Bodyguard vibe? Got it. Just don’t expect me
CHAPTER TWENTY
The morning sun filtered through the curtains of the modest Brooklyn apartment, casting long shadows across the cluttered living room. Anderson Rogers stood by the kitchen counter, his broad shoulders tense under a faded army t-shirt, the scars of St. Maria hidden but never forgotten. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped short, military style, and his weathered face bore the lines of a man who’d seen too much. Across from him, his daughter Emilia slammed her cereal bowl down, milk sloshing over the rim. At sixteen, she was a whirlwind of teenage fury—long auburn hair tied in a messy ponytail, brown eyes blazing with accusation.“You’re unbelievable, Dad!” Emilia shouted, her voice cracking with emotion. “You drove Mom away! All your paranoia, your nightmares— she couldn’t take it anymore. And now you’re acting like everything’s fine?”Anderson set his coffee mug down carefully, his callused hands steady despite the storm brewing inside. “Em, it’s not that simple. Your mom and I… we tr
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