Chapter 3 - The Trojan HorseI didn't answer Cross. I cut the line, my thumb crushing the screen of the burner phone before tossing it into the fireplace.
"Harold!" I roared as I stormed back into the hallway.
Harold materialized from the shadows, his face grim. "Sniper teams are in position on the north and west towers, sir. But Cross jammed our exterior comms. We’re flying blind on satellite feeds."
"He thinks he’s got us cornered because he thinks Emma is just a hostage," I said, my mind racing at light speed. "He doesn't know why Clara sent her. She didn't just send a resume—she sent a key."
I rushed back to the medical suite. Emma was sitting up in the plush guest bed, wrapped in a blanket, clutching a small, worn stuffed rabbit. Dr. Hayes nodded to me, indicating she was stable.
I knelt beside the bed, looking into those wide, terrified eyes. "Emma. Look at me."
She blinked, nodding slowly.
"When your mommy gave you the paper, did she give you anything else? Anything hidden in your clothes? In the apron?"
Emma’s eyes widened. She slowly reached inside the oversized pocket of the adult cleaning apron. Her small, cold fingers fumbled for a moment before pulling out a small, metallic object wrapped tightly inside a waterproof Ziploc bag.
It wasn't a standard flash drive. It was a micro-encryption core—the kind used by military intelligence to store self-destructing data packets. Stamped onto its side was a serial number: V-99-C.
The exact code name for Vincent Cross’s offshore money-laundering accounts.
"Mommy said... if the bad men caught us, I had to give this to the 'angry man with the wolf eyes,'" Emma whispered, biting her lip.
I couldn't help the bitter, humorless chuckle that escaped my throat. The angry man with the wolf eyes. That was what Clara used to call me when we argued over my ruthless business tactics. Even after five years, she still knew me better than anyone else alive.
"Well, the wolf is awake now," I murmured, taking the drive.
Suddenly, the lights in the entire estate flickered violently and died.
Emergency generators kicked in a second later, bathing the hallways in an eerie, dim red glow.
BOOM!
An explosion rocked the southern gatehouse. The ground trembled beneath our feet, shattering the historic stained-glass windows in the foyer.
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"They're breaching!" Harold's voice crackled over our encrypted tactical earpieces. "They've blown the outer wall! Heavy mercenaries, professional gear! They're coming through the gardens!"
"Protect the girl," I ordered instantly, sliding my custom Sig Sauer pistol from its shoulder holster and racking a round into the chamber. "If a single one of those bastards sets foot in this hallway, send them straight to hell."
