Chapter 3 - The Inner Circle's RotBefore Weston could process the explosive revelation, the heavy oak doors of the library flew open with a resounding crash.
Tristan stood on the threshold, a suppressed 9mm pistol drawn and leveled directly at Holly’s chest. His breathing was heavy, his eyes wild with adrenaline.
"Step away from her, Weston!" Tristan barked, his finger trembling slightly against the trigger guard. "I saw her access the mainframe from the security console in the east wing. She's a professional operative. I ran her encrypted ping signature five minutes ago—she's tied to an Interpol watchlist under three different aliases!"
Weston didn't move. He kept his arm pinned against Holly’s collarbone, though his eyes darted sideways to look at his younger brother.
"Put the gun down, Tristan," Weston commanded, his voice cold.
"Are you insane?" Tristan stepped further into the room, his voice rising in panic. "She's an assassin, or worse, a federal plant! Look at what she did to Midnight this morning—that wasn't horse training, Weston. That was neurological pacing. She bypassed the animal's fight-or-flight response using high-frequency vocal frequencies. She's dangerous!"
Holly let out a low, mocking chuckle beneath Weston's arm.
"Oh, look at little brother," she purred, her eyes gleaming with malice as she looked past Weston at Tristan. "So well-informed. So quick with the security logs. Tell me, Tristan... did your tech guys also happen to notice which IP address authorized the override codes for the Hargrove mainframes last night?"
Tristan’s face drained of color. For a split second, a micro-expression of absolute terror flickered across his features before he forced an angry scowl.
"Shut up, you lying bitch! Weston, she's trying to manipulate you—"
"Tristan," Weston interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that made even his brother flinch. "Lower the weapon."
Slowly, reluctantly, Tristan lowered the barrel of the gun, though his hands remained white-knuckled around the grip. "You're making a catastrophic mistake, brother. If you trust her over family, everything we've built will burn."
"Family?" Holly raised an eyebrow, finally twisting her body enough to slip out from under Weston's loosened grip. She straightened her oversized sweater, smoothing down the frayed fabric with chilling composure. "Is that what you call embezzling thirty million dollars from the shipping ports through a shell company in the Cayman Islands, Tristan? Or did you think Weston was too busy mourning his dead wife to check the ledger?"
Tristan stepped forward, raising his voice in a desperate defense. "Weston, she's making it up! It's a smear tactic—"
"Check the micro-drive in my pocket, Weston," Holly interrupted, pulling the small black device out and tossing it lazily across the mahogany desk toward the mafia boss. "Everything your brother has been hiding from you for the past two years is right there. Every transfer, every offshore account, and... the identity of the man who sold the bomb to the Boston hit squad."
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Weston looked down at the micro-drive resting on the polished wood. Then he looked at Tristan, whose chest was heaving as sweat beaded on his forehead.
"Tristan," Weston said softly, stepping away from the desk. "Give me your phone."
