Chapter 3 - THE TRAP SPRINGSThe heavy oak floorboards didn't just break—they shattered inward under a concentrated burst of high-velocity breaching charges planted from the crawlspace below.
Marcus lost his footing, stumbling sideways as a shockwave ripped through the room, sending dust, splinters, and drywall cascading into the air.
I threw myself flat against the floor just as a barrage of non-lethal flash-bang stun grenades sailed through the broken windows from the outside perimeter.
FLASH. BANG.
A blinding white light turned night into day, followed by a concussive shockwave that rattled my teeth and left my ears ringing with a high-pitched, agonizing whine.
Through the haze of smoke and white-hot phosphorus, I heard Marcus scream—not in pain, but in sheer, unadulterated rage.
"CLEAR THE ROOM! SECURE THE ASSET!" a voice bellowed from the doorway.
It wasn’t Marcus’s men. It was voice recognition I knew by heart.
Grant Holloway.
He moved through the smoke like a ghost born of vengeance, his tailored charcoal suit stained with dust, a tactical submachine gun gripped in his scarred hands. He didn't look like the refined, untouchable billionaire who poured scotch in his mahogany study; he looked like an apex predator who had just found blood in the water.
His eyes swept the room in a fraction of a second, landing instantly on me.
"Maya!" he barked over the ringing in my ears, dropping to one knee beside me and grabbing my shoulders with hands that were remarkably steady. "Are you hit?"
"I'm fine," I gasped, coughing from the thick sulfur smoke. "Noah is in the safe room. He's safe."
Grant let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a century. He nodded once, then his face hardened back into a mask of brutal, unforgiving ice as he turned toward the center of the room.
Marcus was struggling to his feet beneath the collapsed frame of a bookshelf, blood trickling from his temple, his rifle knocked yards away into the debris.
"Well, well," Grant said softly, stepping over the shattered floorboards, his weapon leveled directly at Marcus's chest. "My head of security. My right hand. The man who swore an oath over my father's grave."
Marcus spat a mouthful of blood onto the floorboards, wiping his chin with the back of a tactical glove. A twisted, reckless grin spread across his face.
"You think you’re smart, Grant, don't you?" Marcus wheezed, laughing darkly. "You think because you built this little fortress, you can control everything. You brought that girl into your house, you let her swim in your pool, you risked your entire operation for a stray kitten you picked off the streets!"
Grant didn't blink. "You gave our coordinates to the syndicate in Bogotá. You thought I wouldn't trace the encrypted satellite handshake?"
"I gave them nothing compared to what’s coming," Marcus snapped, his eyes flashing with a manic, dangerous light. "You think I’m the only one who thinks you've gone soft? You think the board is going to let you run this cartel like a family daycare just because you feel guilty about what happened to your wife?"
The air in the room instantly dropped twenty degrees.
Grant’s finger twitched on the trigger guard. A dangerous, lethal stillness settled over his entire frame.
"Mention her name again," Grant whispered, his voice dangerously low, "and I won't use a bullet."
Marcus sneered, preparing to lunge forward despite his injuries, but before he could move, a second voice echoed from the staircase behind Grant—a voice that made my blood run colder than anything Marcus had said.
"He's right, Grant," a smooth, cultured voice announced from the shadows. "You have gone soft. And it's time for new management."
May you like
Grant slowly lowered his weapon, turning his head slightly as a third figure stepped out of the smoke, clapping his hands together in slow, mocking rhythm.
It was a man I had never seen before in my life. But the moment Grant looked at him, the color completely drained from the billionaire's face.
