Turn the page to the next chapter and discover what happens next.

-9-

The silence inside the launch tube bunker was suffocating, broken only by Isabella’s soft, exhausted sniffles from across the platform.

The man in the tactical suit—The Sculptor—didn't drop his weapon. Despite Cross collapsing on the floor and Victoria staring in sheer, paralyzed disbelief at the ledger, the operative stood like a statue of black iron, his mirrored visor reflecting the harsh fluorescent glare of the overhead lights.

"Paperwork, Mr. Carter," the voice modulator hissed smoothly, the metallic cadence devoid of any human panic. "Signatures on old parchment don't mean a damn thing when the men holding the guns decide who walks out of this room."

He raised his SIG Sauer, leveling it straight at my eyes with terrifying, millimetric precision.

I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my own gun. I simply looked past the reflective glass of his visor, straight into the eyes of the man who had terrorized Chicago's financial elite for two decades.

"You think this is about paperwork, Marcus?" I asked softly, using a name I had uncovered from a classified intelligence file three years ago.

The operative’s posture stiffened instantly. The subtle micro-movement was enough.

"You thought I wouldn't run a background check on the most expensive cleaner in the Midwest?" I continued, stepping closer, the barrel of my gun nearly touching his chest armor. "Marcus Vance. Former captain in the federal intelligence service, dishonorably discharged in 2004 for leaking syndicate asset locations, turned freelance assassin."

The man lowered his weapon just a fraction—the first sign of human error he had shown all night. "How did you—"

"It doesn't matter how," I interrupted, my voice dropping into an absolute, chilling register. "What matters is that your contract with Victoria and Jonathan is null and void because their funding accounts were frozen by my corporate legal team forty-eight hours ago. Your wire transfer isn't coming, Marcus. You just worked a double shift for free."

Victoria whipped her head around, staring at the operative in sheer panic. "Marcus? What is he talking about? We wired the five million to your offshore account this morning!"

"Check your Cayman app, Victoria," I murmured without breaking eye contact with the operative. "That account was flagged as terrorist financing by Homeland Security three hours ago. Your money is currently sitting in a federal seizure holding pool."

Victoria let out a strangled cry of rage and betrayal, lunging forward to claw at Jonathan Cross, who was still groaning on the floor. "You incompetent fool! You said the channels were secure!"

While Victoria and Cross dissolved into a pathetic, screaming brawl on the concrete, Marcus Vance—The Sculptor—stood motionless for three long seconds. Then, with a slow, deliberate click, he unbuckled his tactical holster, slid his weapon back into place, and slowly raised both hands in the air.

"Professionals know when a contract goes sour," the modulator clicked off, revealing his natural, gravelly voice—an older, tired man with grey stubble and cold, cynical eyes. "I'm out, Carter. Keep the girl. Keep the ledger. Just let me walk out of the snow."

"You're not walking anywhere," I said, stepping back and gesturing with my gun toward the steel chair where Isabella was tied. "Untie my daughter first."

Marcus didn't argue. He crossed the platform in two strides, pulled a tactical combat knife from his boot, and sliced cleanly through the heavy leather straps binding Isabella's wrists and ankles.

The moment she was free, Isabella didn't hesitate. She scrambled out of the chair, burst into tears, and came running across the concrete floor straight toward me.

I dropped my weapon instantly, knelt down, and caught her in my arms, burying her face against my shoulder as she sobbed out all the terror, cold, and pain of the last twenty-four hours.

"I've got you, baby," I whispered, my voice breaking as I kissed her damp hair. "I've got you. We're going home."

Behind us, the heavy steel blast doors at the top of the rusted iron staircase suddenly banged open with a deafening crash, echoing down the subterranean shaft like rolling thunder.