Chapter 233: Keep Him Alive

Alistair

The stench of burnt cordite and wet mud makes a terrible substitute for the usual scent of polished mahogany.

I stand on the ruined marble terrace of the eastern wing. The torrential storm has finally reduced itself to a miserable, freezing drizzle. The manicured lawns of the Wolfe estate look like a heavily shelled warzone. Deep craters interrupt the green grass. Shattered stone statues lie in jagged pieces across the flooded walkways.

I wipe a mixture of rainwater and concrete dust from my forehead. The nano-bulletproof vest beneath my ruined dress shirt feels incredibly heavy.

A fleet of unmarked black utility vans sits parked along the main driveway. The flashing red and blue lights of the local authorities remain entirely absent. The police are not handling this cleanup.

Warren Sinclair walks up the marble steps of the terrace. The billionaire boss of the Azure Syndicate wears a pristine camel-hair overcoat over a dark tailored suit. He sidesteps a pile of shattered glass with practiced elegance. His expensive leather shoes do not acquire a single drop of mud.

“Your landscaping took quite a beating, Alistair,” Warren notes. His smooth, cultured voice carries easily over the drone of idling diesel engines. “I know an excellent contractor in the York District. He specializes in rapid structural repair.”

“The landscaping is irrelevant,” I reply. I turn to face him. “Are the transport vehicles secure?”

Warren nods once. He slips his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “My operatives have the remaining Obsidian Triangle mercenaries secured in the reinforced transport vans. We administered heavy sedatives. They will sleep the entire way to the holding facility.”

“And the leader?” I ask, my voice dropping to a harsh, unforgiving register. “The man in the yellow raincoat.”

“Jester is receiving special accommodations,” Warren assures me. A cold, predatory smile touches the corners of his mouth. “My medical personnel stabilized his shattered collarbone. We bolted him to a steel chair in a soundproof transit vehicle. The authorities will receive the low-level foot soldiers. Jester belongs entirely to the Azure Syndicate. He will wait in a lightless room until you are ready to conduct the interrogation.”

“Keep him alive, Warren. Do not let him bleed out. He owes me a very long list of names.”

“He will pray for death long before he receives it,” Warren says, his tone completely devoid of humor. He looks past my shoulder at the ruined titanium security doors leading to the subterranean levels. “You handled an elite paramilitary assault team with a private security detail. The entire underworld of Asuir City is going to whisper about this night for a decade.”

“They came for my family,” I state simply. “I do not leave loose ends.”

Greyson jogs across the flooded terrace. The head of Wolfe security looks ragged. His tactical vest bears the white, chalky scars of grazing concrete impacts. He holds a secure radio handset tightly in his right grip.

“Mr. Wolfe,” Greyson says, stopping three feet away. He breathes heavily. “The perimeter is completely secure. Mr. Sinclair’s operatives are washing the blood from the courtyard paving stones. We account for every hostile.”

“Casualty report,” I demand.

“Six of our security personnel sustained gunshot wounds,” Greyson answers. “None of the injuries are critical. The medical bay staff is currently extracting the bullets and suturing the damage. The defensive protocols held.”

I let out a slow, measured breath. The absolute tension gripping my spine begins to loosen. The estate is safe. The Stellar Core Meteorite Gold remains securely integrated inside the Ultimate Power Laboratory. The technological supremacy of the Wolfe Empire is intact.

Most importantly, Emily is safe.

“Mr. Wolfe,” a new voice interrupts.

Leo steps through the shattered glass doors of the terrace. The operative looks completely disheveled. His dark suit is plastered to his skin with freezing rain and mud. He holds his custom suppression rifle by the carrying handle. He does not look triumphant. He looks terrified.

“Leo,” I say, stepping toward him. “Report.”

“The hostiles are gone, sir,” Leo says, his chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths. “It is your wife. You need to come to the medical bay right now.”

The cold satisfaction of victory vanishes. A spike of pure, unadulterated panic drives itself directly into my ribs.

“What happened?” I demand, grabbing Leo by the lapel of his ruined jacket. “Was she shot? Did someone breach the safe room?”

“No one touched her,” Leo insists, raising his hands defensively. “It is the baby, sir. She collapsed in the hallway.”

I release his jacket. I do not say another word to Warren or Greyson. I break into a dead sprint across the ruined marble terrace.