Chapter 7 - The Midnight Breach
I stepped back as Graham heaved the intruder further into the room. The man wore black tactical clothing with no insignia, his face obscured by a Kevlar balaclava. Julian immediately knelt beside the unconscious body, ripping off the mask to reveal a harsh, scarred face we both recognized instantly.
“Viktor Rostov,” Julian muttered, his expression darkening like a gathering storm. “Robert’s former head of private security. I thought he retired to Eastern Europe twenty years ago.”
“He didn't retire,” Graham said, wiping blood from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “He’s been on retainer for the past three months. Direct payroll deposits coming straight from an offshore account linked to Vanessa Calder’s personal Swiss portfolio.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Vanessa was locked in a maximum-security county jail cell, yet her reach still extended into my home in the dead of night. “How did he get past the perimeter security?” I asked, my voice sharp.
“He didn't,” Graham replied grimly, pulling a cracked tablet from his tactical vest. “Someone on the inside gave him the biometric override codes for the smart-lock system. Someone with master administrative clearance.”
Julian looked up from the floor, his eyes meeting mine with devastating clarity. “Daniel.”
The realization hit me like a physical blow. My son, desperate to avoid prison, terrified of losing his lifestyle, had given Vanessa’s top enforcer the keys to his mother’s penthouse. He hadn't just been a coward; he had actively conspired to let an assassin into my home.
“Where is Daniel now?” I demanded, the grief I had felt earlier completely incinerated by a cold, unyielding rage.
“His hotel room was abandoned twenty minutes ago,” Graham said, tapping away on his tablet. “Traffic cameras show him getting into a black SUV registered under a dummy corporation owned by Horizon Healthcare. They’re heading toward the private airfield up north.”
I walked over to the mahogany desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a heavy steel-framed Browning 9mm pistol that had belonged to my late husband. I checked the magazine, the familiar weight grounding me in the chaos.
May you like
“Julian,” I said, looking at my brother-in-law with absolute resolve. “Are you ready to finish what we started thirty-five years ago?”
Julian stood up, a fierce, long-suppressed smile breaking across his weathered face. He reached into his coat and produced his own firearm—a sleek, stainless steel revolver. “I’ve been waiting thirty-five years for this, Eleanor. Let’s go hunt some ghosts.”
