Chapter 3 - THE DOUBLE-CROSS IN THE CLOSETA metallic click echoed behind me—the unmistakable sound of a Sig Sauer P320 safety disengaging.
"Drop the Glock, Maya," a smooth, chillingly familiar voice whispered from the shadows of the bedroom doorway.
I didn't drop it. I pivoted on my heel, bringing my weapon up in a fluid arc, but I froze when I saw who was standing there.
It wasn't Chloe.
It was Special Agent Marcus Vance—or at least, the man I had trusted as my direct superior for the past six years. He was holding my classified master drive in one hand and a secondary detonator in the other.
"Marcus?" My voice dropped an octave, the betrayal cutting deeper than any family insult ever could. "You're the head of Aethelgard?"
Marcus smiled, a cold, calculated expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Director Vance retired six months ago, Maya. I replaced him. And frankly, your little task force was becoming a nuisance. You kept sniffing around the edges of the Portland senior trusts, getting too close to the financial clearinghouse."
"And Chloe?" I demanded, keeping my sights locked on his center mass. "Where does my sister fit into this? Was her corporate job just a front?"
"Chloe is brilliant," Marcus said smoothly, taking a slow step forward. "She understood modern fintech better than any old-school investigator. She set up the shell companies; your parents provided the local access to vulnerable elders through their community charity board; and I provided the federal clearance that kept every local police department from looking too closely at missing-person reports."
He tapped the screen of the open vault. "And now, you've walked right into the containment zone. The building’s gas lines have been remotely opened, Maya. In two minutes, a single electrical spark from that smart terminal will turn this entire floor into a crater. The official report will read: Disgraced federal agent dies in methamphetamine lab explosion."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my training kicked in. Panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. Grandma had taught me how to hide fear behind calm eyes long before the FBI ever tested my psychological endurance.
"You think Chloe is going to let you take the fall for her family?" I asked, my voice dangerously steady. "You think she built a multi-million-dollar syndicate just to let some corrupt Bureau director tie a neat little bow around it?"
Marcus’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second—just enough.
"What are you talking about?"
"Chloe didn't send you here to kill me, Marcus," I said, taking a calculated gamble. "She sent you here because she knew you had the master encryption keys. She’s not your partner. She’s your liquidator."
Before Marcus could process the warning, the smart terminal on the wall chimed.
The screen flickered. The gas-line override command was instantly canceled. Instead, a new window popped open, displaying a live bank transfer confirmation.
Account drained: $42,500,000. Recipient: Chloe Cole.
May you like
Marcus stared at the screen, his face turning an ash-gray. "No... that’s impossible. I locked out her access credentials this morning."
"You forgot rule number one of working with a cybercriminal," I whispered, stepping inside his reactionary gap before he could level his gun. "Never trust someone who taught you how to code."
