Chapter 6 - The Traitor’s OfficeThe double doors to my private second-floor office stood slightly ajar, a sliver of warm golden light spilling out onto the darkened mahogany hallway.

Inside, the sound of smooth jazz played softly from a vintage turntable—a pretentious little habit Marcus had always loved, playing old vinyl while he reviewed financial ledgers and death warrants.

I pushed the heavy oak door open with the barrel of my rifle, stepping over the threshold into the room I had designed as a sanctuary.

Marcus sat behind my custom mahogany desk, swirling a glass of twenty-year-old single-malt scotch. He looked up, expecting to see his lead mercenary holding my bloodied signet ring. Instead, he saw me standing in the doorway, soaked in sweat, powder burns on my tactical vest, and a cold, dead look in my eyes.

For a fraction of a second, panic flickered across Marcus’s sharp, well-manicured features. Then, his trademark arrogant smirk returned, and he slowly set his glass down on the polished wood.

“Julian,” Marcus said smoothly, leaning back in my leather executive chair as if we were discussing a quarterly merger instead of a bloody assassination attempt. “I must admit, you’re harder to kill than a cockroach. I told the boys we should have used a rocket launcher on the East Wing, but nobody ever listens to the logistics guy.”

I raised my rifle, resting the crosshairs dead-center on his chest. “Twelve years, Marcus. I pulled you out of a gutter in Tijuana. I gave you a name, a bank account, and a seat at my table.”

“And you kept me in your shadow for every single one of those years, Julian,” Marcus snapped, his polished facade cracking to reveal a well of bitter, festering hatred. “You think you’re a king, but you’re just a dinosaur holding onto a dying empire. The syndicate needed new leadership. Cleaner leadership. Someone who knows how to cut ties with the old guard—starting with your little girls.”

My finger tightened on the trigger, the hammer cocking back with a sharp, metallic click that echoed loudly in the quiet room. “You touch my daughters, and you signed your own death warrant.”

Marcus chuckled, reaching slowly toward the inside pocket of his tailored jacket. “You really think I came here without a fail-safe, old friend? Look at your private terminal.”

I glanced sideways at the glowing multi-screen monitor on my desk. The encrypted dashboard was flashing red, displaying a live video feed of the sub-basement vault where my daughters were locked away.

Standing outside the vault door on the screen was a fourth operative, holding a heavy-duty C4 explosive charge wired to a remote detonator.

“One push of this button,” Marcus smiled, lifting a small wireless clicker from his pocket with his thumb resting lightly on the trigger, “and Ashford House becomes your family’s permanent tomb. Drop the gun, Julian. Get on your knees, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll let you say goodbye before the concrete caves in.”

My stomach dropped into a bottomless abyss. All the tactical training, all the wealth, all the power in the world meant nothing when a madman held the detonator to my children’s lives.

Slowly, deliberately, I lowered the barrel of my rifle toward the floor.

“That’s it,” Marcus whispered, his eyes gleaming with psychotic triumph as he stood up from the desk, raising his own pistol to point straight between my eyes. “Smart dog. Now, let’s finish—”

Thwack.

A dull, heavy impact echoed through the office.

Marcus’s eyes rolled back into his head before he could finish the sentence. He stiffened, dropped his pistol, and collapsed sideways over the mahogany desk, his cheek landing right beside his glass of scotch.

Standing behind him, holding the heavy, blood-spattered brass statue of the Chicago skyline she had just cracked across the back of his skull, was Claire.

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She calmly set the heavy statue back down on the credenza, shook out her right hand with a wince of lingering pain from her old wrist injury, and looked down at the unconscious traitor.

“Talkers always love the sound of their own voice,” Claire said coolly, reaching into Marcus’s limp hand and pulling the C4 remote detonator out of his fingers. She looked at the blinking red light, pressed a small disarm sequence with practiced speed, and pocketed the device. “Rookie mistake, Mr. Vale. Never monologue when you have the upper hand.”