Chapter 52 Roger Grand
Roger Grand
The city glittered below, all neon and steel, a thousand lives moving blindly through the streets. They thought themselves free—untouchable. They didn’t know how deep Hydra’s claws already sank.
Roger Grand stood at the balcony, hands braced on the iron rail, watching the veins of traffic flow like blood through the dark. His men waited behind him in the suite, silent, respectful of the storm they knew better than to interrupt.
“They’ve reached the city,” one finally said. “Safehouse on the east side. Our contacts confirm.”
Roger’s smile spread slow and sharp. “Good.”
He turned from the window, stepping toward the map sprawled across the table. Red pins marked Hydra’s choke points—the markets, the safehouses, the ports. Blue pins marked the Team’s suspected entry routes. Every path converged like threads in a spider’s web.
“Beckett thinks he has her safe.” Roger’s voice was silk and venom, a blade hidden in velvet. “He’ll gather his brothers. They’ll plan, strategize, cling to their loyalty like it’s armor. But loyalty is the crack in their steel.”
He tapped one pin—an informant’s location near the western market. “Our people are already in place. Merchants. Drivers. Street rats. Every coin flipped in this city carries our mark. When Beckett moves, we’ll know.”
A younger lieutenant shifted. “And Elara? What if she doesn’t surface?”
Roger’s eyes burned cold. “She’ll surface. She’s not hiding behind Beckett. She’s clinging. And clinging makes people reckless. She’ll come into the open to protect him, if nothing else.”
He leaned back, folding his hands behind his back as calm settled over him like a second skin.
“Prepare the nets. I want her alive. Beckett?” His smile turned cruel. “Bring him to me breathing. I want the pleasure of teaching him what it means to steal from me.”
The men nodded, the weight of his command thick in the air. Roger turned back to the balcony, the hum of the city pulsing in his ears.
The city didn’t know it yet. But by dawn, it would belong to Hydra.