Chapter 9 - THE UNFINISHED WARI slowly lowered the phone, my fingers trembling so violently that Grant immediately felt the shift in my posture.
"Maya?" Grant asked, his voice dropping instantly into its former, razor-sharp edge of absolute vigilance. He pulled away, looking down at my pale face. "What is it?"
Without a word, I turned the phone screen toward him.
Grant stared at the photograph. The color drained from his face so fast it was as if he had been struck by lightning. The relaxed, peaceful billionaire vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced once again by the cold, calculating syndicate boss who trusted no one.
"Cain," Grant whispered, the name hissing through his clenched teeth like a death sentence. "I thought federal intelligence had him transferred to a facility in the Arctic."
"He's here, Grant," I said, my voice steadying as the adrenaline kicked into my veins. "He's watching us."
Before Grant could respond, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the far edge of the patio property line—the unmistakable sound of a long-range sniper rifle bolt sliding into place.
"GET DOWN!" Grant bellowed with terrifying authority.
He lunged forward, tackling me off the patio lounger just as a high-powered, suppressed bullet screamed through the air where my head had been a second before, shattering a decorative glass vase behind us into a million glittering shards.
"NOAH!" Grant screamed at the top of his lungs.
Across the lawn, Noah froze in terror as the crack of the gunshot echoed off the cliffside.
I didn't hesitate. Adrenaline surged through my veins with the familiar, fierce muscle memory of the day I first met Grant. I scrambled across the grass, ignoring the scraping stones, and threw my body over Noah, pulling him flat against the lawn behind the stone retaining wall of the pool.
"Maya! Are you hit?" Noah sobbed, clinging to my jacket.
"I'm okay, sweetie! Keep your head down, do not move!" I commanded, shielding him with my entire body.
From the patio, Grant rolled behind a massive stone pillar, his hand instantly diving into the concealed tactical compartment built into the base of the outdoor dining table.
When his hand emerged, it gripped a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer P226 pistol.
He didn't hesitate. Peering around the edge of the stone pillar, he scanned the tree line along the cliff trail three hundred yards away.
CRACK.
Another round chewed into the wood of the patio table, sending splinters flying.
Grant fired twice in rapid succession—BANG, BANG—suppressive shots designed to pin the sniper down behind the dense brush on the ridge.
"CAIN!" Grant roared across the canyon, his voice carrying the full weight of a vengeful god. "YOU WANT ME? COME AND GET ME!"
A cold, artificial voice echoed back from a loudspeaker hidden somewhere in the distant trees.
"The game isn't over, Holloway! You can run to the edge of the world, but the syndicate owns your blood! The girl dies today. The boy tomorrow. And you watch them burn!"
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And then, the sound of a high-performance dirt bike engine roared to life in the tree line, fading rapidly down the mountain trail toward the private cove below.
Silence descended upon the cliffside once more, broken only by the gentle crashing of the ocean waves far below.
