Chapter 4 - THE PUMPING STATIONThe old municipal water plant smelled of rust, stagnant river water, and ozone.
Shadows stretched long and jagged across the concrete floor as Dominic’s team moved through the rusted service tunnels like ghosts. Not a boot squeaked. Not a radio clicked.
Claire moved directly behind Dominic, her movements surprisingly fluid for someone who spent her days designing high-end floral arrangements. Desperation has a way of teaching you how to survive very quickly.
"Second floor, Sector B," Marcus whispered through the encrypted comms. "Thermal imaging shows two guards outside the primary holding room. One target inside with the hostage."
Dominic raised three fingers, then two, then one.
Break.
The metal service door blew inward with a dull, muffled thud as standard-issue breaching charges did their silent work. Before the guards could even turn their heads, Dominic’s silencers hissed twice. Both men dropped instantly, their bodies catching the floor without a sound.
Dominic kicked open the inner office door.
There, tied to a wooden chair with thick zip-ties, sat Paige. Her clothes were rumpled, her face streaked with dried tears, but she was breathing. Standing over her with a switchblade pressed against her throat was a scarred mercenary wearing Vance’s private security patch.
"Drop the hardware or the girl gets a new smile!" the mercenary screamed, pressing the blade deeper until a tiny bead of crimson welled up on Paige’s pale neck.
Claire gasped, taking a step forward.
"Don't move!" the guard yelled, his eyes wild with panic. "I’ll slice her throat right now—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Dominic didn't negotiate. He didn't hesitate. With preternatural speed, he drew his throwing knife—a custom-balanced piece of steel he kept tucked inside his sleeve—and let it fly.
The blade buried itself with a sickening thud directly into the mercenary’s throat. The man dropped his knife, choked on his own blood, and collapsed backward over the desk.
"Paige!" Claire cried out, rushing forward and sawing through the zip-ties with her own pocketknife.
The nineteen-year-old girl fell into her sister’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. "They… they said if I didn't help them get into your house, Claire… they said they'd kill us both…"
"It's over," Dominic said, stepping over the body and walking to the office computer terminal, which was still lit up with live feeds. "Shh, it's over."
He glanced at the monitor. The screen wasn't showing security footage of the pumping station. It was displaying a live feed of his own mansion.
And the camera angle was coming from inside the master bedroom.
Dominic leaned closer. On the screen, a man in a tailored dark suit was sitting in Dominic’s leather armchair, pouring himself a glass of eighty-year-old scotch. He looked directly into the hidden camera and smiled, knowing Dominic was watching from miles away.
The computer speakers crackled to life, and Victor Vance’s smooth, mocking voice filled the room.
"Enjoying the rescue, Dominic?" Vance’s voice echoed through the empty warehouse. "You thought you were so clever, tracking down the girl. But you forgot one fundamental rule of chess: while you're busy defending your queen across the board, your opponent is already checkmating your king."
Dominic’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was an emergency alert from his automated estate security system.
CRITICAL BREACH: EAST WING VAULT UNLOCKED.
"My vault," Dominic muttered, his blood turning to ice. "The core servers."
May you like
"Oh, it's not just your servers, my friend," Vance laughed softly through the monitor. "By the time you drive back from that damp little river shack, every offshore account, every hidden ledger, and every federal immunity document you possess will be uploaded to Interpol. And your little wedding in eleven days? There won't be a bride, there won't be a house, and there certainly won't be a Hale crime syndicate left to protect you."
The screen flickered and went black.
