Chapter 2 - The Cipher of SeattleThe air in the library grew so dense it felt difficult to breathe.
Weston didn't flinch at the casual use of his first name, nor did he blink at the utter lack of fear radiating from the woman standing before him. He had faced cartel bosses, federal prosecutors, and professional hitmen who wept and begged for mercy when cornered. Holly Bennett looked at him like a biologist studying an interesting specimen under a microscope.
"Who are you?" Weston demanded, his hands remaining steady inside the pockets of his silk robe. "The Manhattan agency swore you had never set foot west of the Mississippi except for Seattle."
"Agencies check what people pay them to check, Weston," Holly said smoothly, slipping the encrypted micro-drive into the pocket of her oversized sweater. "If you want a ghost to stay dead, you give her a clean credit score, a mountain of student debt, and a dying mother in a hospice care center. It’s amazing what a few corrupted state databases can buy."
"You hacked state records?"
"I improved them," she corrected with a faint, chilling smile. "Just like I improved your stallion's disposition this morning. Some creatures respond to whips and chains. Others respond to respect. And some... well, some only respond to blood."
Weston closed the distance between them with terrifying speed. In a single fluid motion, he pinned her against the edge of the mahogany desk, his forearm pressing firmly against her collarbone. His face was inches from hers, his dark eyes locked onto her unblinking gaze.
"You're standing in my house, stealing secrets that would start a war, and talking about blood," Weston whispered, the threat heavy and absolute. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't throw you off the balcony right now and let the lake take care of the cleanup."
Holly didn't struggle. She didn't even raise her hands to push him away. Instead, a bitter laugh escaped her lips—a sound devoid of warmth.
"Because if you kill me, Weston, you will never know who really planted the car bomb that killed your wife three years ago."
The name hung in the air like a detonation.
Weston froze. The pressure of his arm against her collarbone didn't lighten, but his breathing hitched—a microscopic betrayal he couldn't control. The ghost of that rainy night in Boston, the twisted metal, the flames, the silence that followed—it all rushed back with blinding fury.
"You're lying," he hissed, though the conviction in his voice was beginning to fracture.
"Am I?" Holly tilted her head up, meeting his fierce glare with an intensity that matched his own. "Your security team blamed the Italian syndicate. The FBI blamed a rogue cell in the Irish mob. But none of them checked the serial number of the detonator, did they? Because the technology used in that bomb didn't come from the streets of Boston. It came from a black-site military contractor in the Pacific Northwest. My backyard, Weston."
Weston’s eyes narrowed. "What does a Seattle nurse have to do with military black sites?"
"I wasn't a nurse," Holly whispered, her gaze dropping to his lips for a fraction of a second before flashing back up. "I was the lead software engineer on Project Chimera. The same project that built your wife's killer—and the same project that wiped my brother off the face of the earth when he tried to expose them."
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She reached down, her fingers brushing against Weston's wrist where his pulse hammered against his skin.
"You think you're the apex predator, Weston Hargrove? You're just a pawn on a much larger board. And right now, someone inside your own inner circle is setting up the final move."
