Chapter 4 - The Midnight VisitorAt 3:45 AM, the security alarms didn't go off. That was the first terrifying clue.
Dominic was sitting slumped in his ergonomic chair, half-asleep with a cup of cold black coffee on the desk, when a tiny amber light blinked on the perimeter sensor grid.
Sector 9. The southwest service gate near the old greenhouse.
Someone hadn't broken the gate; they had used a digital master-override code—a code that only three people on earth possessed: Dominic, Calvin Ross, and... Julian.
Dominic was out of his chair before his brain could fully process the tactical implications. His hand flew to the shoulder holster beneath his jacket, sliding his customized Sig Sauer P226 into his palm with a familiar, metallic hiss.
He didn't wake the guards. In a syndicate war, night-shift guards were often the first bought out.
Dominic moved through the darkened corridors of the mansion like a ghost, his rubber-soled boots making zero sound against the polished wood. He headed straight for the east wing. If someone was coming for Julian, they had to go through him first.
As he reached the junction connecting the main house to Julian’s private quarters, he heard a soft, rhythmic sound coming from the kitchen.
Clink. Tap. Clink.
Dominic froze in the shadows of the arched doorway.
The light in the small kitchen was on, casting a warm yellow strip across the hallway floor.
Grace Miller was standing at the counter in her oversized gray pajamas and a heavy knit robe. She wasn't hiding. She wasn't planting a bomb or downloading files. She was standing over a steaming pot of water, carefully measuring loose-leaf chamomile and dried lavender into a small silver strainer.
Dominic stepped out of the shadows, his pistol raised and pointed squarely at the center of her back.
"Turn around. Slowly," Dominic whispered, his voice slicing through the quiet kitchen like a razor blade.
Grace didn't drop the pot. She didn't scream.
May you like
She slowly turned off the burner, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and then turned around to face the barrel of a loaded gun with a look of profound, soul-weary irritation.
"If you shoot me, Mr. Vale," Grace said flatly, "who is going to clean the grease trap behind the industrial range? Because Calvin hasn't touched it since the Obama administration."
