Chapter Seven #2
The first man came through the tree line hard and fast, boots slapping wet ground.
Kol tracked him through the narrow firing port and dropped him with two controlled shots before he could clear his weapon.
The second tried to flank wide along the waterline and died mid-step, his momentum carrying him face-first into the sand.
Gunfire lit the afternoon.
The house answered.
Automated defenses came online with a low mechanical hum, controlled bursts forcing the attackers to scatter. Someone screamed. Someone else kept moving.
"Damn Kol, your house is scary," Luca murmured.
“They know she’s there,” Mateo said a moment later, voice tighter now as predictive models updated. “This isn’t a snatch-and-grab. It’s punishment. They came loud on purpose, and they fucking know she’s there.”
Kol’s jaw locked.
The buyer was furious.
Good. That meant they’d hurt him.
A third man breached the outer wall and made it three steps inside before Kol put him down. Blood sprayed the pale stone. The smell of cordite and salt filled the air.
“Eliza,” Kol said without turning. “Look at me.”
She did.
Her face was pale but steady, eyes locked on his like an anchor point in a storm.
“Breathe,” he told her. “You’re doing fine.”
Another explosion rocked the far side of the property.
“This is escalating,” Mateo warned. “They’re not pulling back.”
“They won’t,” Kol said. “Not yet. They haven’t achieved what they came for.”
Because this wasn’t about retrieval anymore.
It was about terror.
The buyer wanted her afraid.
Kol felt something inside him snap cleanly in half.
He moved.
Not forward in a rush—laterally first, one precise step, then another, breaking the line they’d just sighted.
He fired, relocated, and fired again. Two shots, shift.
One controlled burst, pivot. He used the corridor the way it had been designed to be used, moving between firing slits, never staying long enough to return fire to bracket him.
“Left tree line, seventy meters,” Mateo said, voice clipped and fast. “Wind quartering. He’s crouched.”
Kol leaned into the angle, adjusted half a degree, and squeezed the trigger. The man folded without a sound.
Kol fell back three steps as incoming rounds chewed into the outer wall, then advanced again through a secondary lane, drawing fire away from the main structure. He let them see him just long enough to commit, then disappeared as the house’s defenses rerouted and flared.
A drone screamed overhead. Kol waited until it dipped to re-acquire, then fired once. It detonated mid-air, shrapnel hissing into the water beyond.
“Two moving right,” Mateo said. “They’re trying to rush.”
“Let them,” Kol replied.
He retreated deliberately, boots sliding on stone dust and blood, pulling them deeper into the approach corridor.
The moment they crossed the invisible threshold, the house answered—automated fire forcing them into the open.
Kol stepped back into view and dropped both men before they understood the trap.
Bodies fell.
Not randomly. Not chaotically.
Each one exactly where he intended.
Water burned where fuel caught.
One man made it close enough to shout.
“You belong to him!” the man screamed, firing blindly. “You were paid for, bit-!”
Kol ended him mid-syllable.
“No,” he said coldly. “She was stolen.”
Silence fell abruptly.
Then the retreat came.
Fast. Disorderly.
Mateo confirmed it seconds later. “They’re pulling out. Drones are burning out their own circuits. Clean exit.”
Kol stayed where he was until the last heat signature vanished from the perimeter.
Only then did he lower his weapon.
He turned back to Eliza.
She was still standing.
Hands clenched at her sides. Breathing shallow but controlled. Alive in a way that mattered.
He crossed the distance between them slowly, deliberately, making sure she saw every step.
“It’s over,” he said.
She swallowed. “For now.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
“Yes,” he agreed. “For now.”
He reached out, stopped himself, then settled for standing close enough that she could lean into him if she chose.
She didn’t.
But she stayed.
And that was enough.
Outside, the smoke drifted low over the water, carrying the unmistakable message of what would happen to anyone who came for her again.
Kol stared out at the wreckage and made a vow he did not speak aloud.
They had brought violence to his door.
He would take the war to theirs.
****
He did not raise his voice.
That was the first mistake the man on the other end of the call made—thinking the quiet meant restraint.
The buyer stood alone in his office, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The space had been designed for authority, dark wood, soundproofed walls, floors laid in seamless laminate that could be wiped clean without staining.
He’d chosen it deliberately. Not for aesthetics. For practicality.
The call ended.
He stared at the black screen for a long moment, breathing slow and even, as the information settled into place.
Dead.
Not injured. Not delayed.
Dead.
An entire retrieval team erased.
The drone footage had cut out mid-feed, corrupted on purpose. That, more than the losses, infuriated him. He paid for certainty. For control. For outcomes that could be measured and enforced.
This was chaos.
His fingers curled slowly against the desk.
“She was there,” he said to the empty room. It wasn’t a question. “And you failed.”
A shape detached itself from the shadows near the door.
“Yes, sir.”
The man didn’t step closer. He knew better. The buyer turned then, eyes cold, expression carved from entitlement and fury.
“They held her at a location with a fortified structure,” the man continued carefully. “Military-grade response. Automated defenses. Whoever has her—"
“She belongs to me,” the buyer cut in.
Silence snapped tight between them.
“She was paid for,” he went on, voice calm now in the way that preceded violence. “Her skills. Her memory. Her body. Those were the terms of sale. Binding terms.”
The man swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
He gestured once.
Another man stepped forward.
Steel flashed.
The blade opened the first man’s throat so cleanly there was no sound at all—just a wet, startled exhale as he collapsed to the floor, blood spreading fast across the laminate. The buyer watched it with detached interest, noting how quickly it pooled.
He’d been right about the flooring.
“Clean this up,” he said.
The shadowed man nodded and dragged the body away without ceremony.
The buyer returned to his desk and poured himself a drink he didn’t intend to finish.
“They think they’ve won,” he murmured.
He took a single sip and set the glass aside.
“They don’t understand,” he continued. “She is broken now. Not because of them—but because of others who acted without discipline. And broken things need guidance.”
His mouth curved, faintly.
“She will come back,” he said with absolute certainty. “She needs structure. Correction. Someone who understands how to make her useful again.”
Outside, the city moved on, unaware.
Inside the office, plans were already shifting.
Resources would be mobilized. Legal shields reinforced. New intermediaries inserted. Pressure applied in places that didn’t bleed.
He would not rush.
He would be patient.
After all, he had already paid for her.
And when he found her again, he would make very sure she understood that some debts were never forgiven.