Chapter 12 - The Syndicate's Shadow
Before I could process the full weight of the revelation, the secure intercom on my desk chimed—a sharp, double-beep that indicated someone had tripped the perimeter laser grid at the outer gates of the estate.
I didn't reach for the phone to call my guards. Instead, I unlocked the lower drawer of my desk, pulled out a matte-black Sig Sauer P226, checked the magazine with a practiced, silent click, and slid it into my shoulder holster.
I walked out of the study, moving through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion like a ghost. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast long, skeletal shadows across the marble floors. I descended the sweeping grand staircase toward the massive double front doors.
Through the reinforced frosted glass panels, I saw movement. Not the casual patrol of my private security detail, but swift, silent silhouettes cutting through the courtyard mist. Four figures. Professional operators, moving with military precision, bypassing the gate cameras with localized frequency jammers.
They weren't here to break in. They were here to sanitize.
I stepped into the shadows of the foyer just as the heavy oak-and-steel front door produced a sharp, metallic hiss. A thermal-lance was burning through the electronic deadbolt. Sparks rained down in a golden shower against the dark wood.
Click.
The lock gave way. The door swung inward, and the lead operator stepped across the threshold, his suppressed rifle raised, scanning the dark foyer.
He never saw me move.
Before his boot could touch the Persian rug, I closed the distance between us. My left hand caught the barrel of his rifle, shoving it upward toward the ceiling, while my right hand drove the butt of my pistol hard against the side of his tactical helmet. The man buckled instantly, collapsing onto the marble without a sound.
His partner behind him reacted with terrifying speed, pivoting his weapon toward my chest.
"Drop it," I said softly, my voice cutting through the cavernous hall.
A red laser dot appeared dead center on the second operator’s forehead. From the second-floor balcony above, Clara stood holding a specialized heavy-caliber sniper rifle she had pulled from my hidden armory, her eyes cold, steady, and devoid of fear.
The operator froze. He slowly lowered his rifle, letting it clatter to the floor.
"Who sent you?" I asked, stepping over the unconscious man at my feet and grabbing the second operator by the collar of his tactical vest, slamming him against the mahogany wall.
"Go to hell," the man grunted, a cruel smirk touching his lips beneath his balaclava.
"People who say that usually regret it before dawn," I whispered. I pressed the muzzle of my pistol directly beneath his chin. "You have five seconds to tell me which board member of the syndicate gave you the contract, or I leave you here for the federal agents who are already reviewing Victor’s server."
The operator's eyes darted toward the open door, then back to my face. He saw something in my eyes that convinced him the federal prison was a much safer destination than my basement.
"Erickson," the man choked out. "Senator Erickson. He’s the chairman of the congressional oversight committee on maritime trade. Victor was just his regional fixer. If Erickson falls, half the government falls with him."
May you like
I stared at him for a long moment, then struck him across the temple with the heavy grip of my gun, dropping him into unconsciousness.
I turned my head upward. "Clara, tie these two up and lock them in the lower vault. Then wake up the security team. It’s time we pay a late-night visit to Washington."
