32. Jayson
JAYSON
T he sky is still black when I step onto the wide balcony that wraps around the east wing of the mansion. A single wall lamp glows behind me, but I stay in the dark. The cold air helps me think. My breath turns white in front of my face.
Below, the grass shines with dew. At the edge of the yard, tall cedar trees stand like guards. I paid a fortune to make this place a fortress:
Thin wires with heat sensors run along the fence. Pressure plates hide under the leaves. Motion lights hang on thick branches, ready to burst into blinding white if anything moves the wrong way.
Nothing should get through.
So when I spot a shape at the tree line—still as stone, right between two cedars—my pulse kicks hard.
The alarms never squealed. The lights never flashed. Yet someone is down there, twenty yards from the front gate, just watching the house.
A pro … or a ghost .
I slide my hand to the Glock at the back of my jeans. Thumb to the safety. I don’t draw it yet. First I need eyes on the target.
I slip back inside, move fast through the hallway, then down the servant stairs. My bare feet make almost no sound on the wood, but the house creaks anyway. Old timber always tattles.
I exit through the side door, staying low. The wet grass soaks my feet and chills my skin, but I ignore it. The figure is still in the same spot. No flashlight, no phone glow, no breath mist I can see.
Ten yards. Eight. Six.
He bolts.
“Damn,” I hiss, blasting forward. My legs burn. Branches slap my arms. He’s quick—too quick to be a lost hiker. I chase him past the cedars, deeper into the brush.
I catch a rasp of his breathing—close. I push harder.
Then he vanishes.
I stop. Listen. The night answers with wind and a few brave crickets. Nothing else. He melted into the dark like water into soil.
I lift the gun, think about firing a warning shot. The blast would wake Nina. It would wake Keira. I’m not ready for either of them to see me like this—shirt damp, hands shaking, eyes hunting.
I lower the weapon.
Back on the lawn, I breathe in the cold until my lungs sting. Failure tastes like rust. I head inside, shower off the sweat and dirt, wipe the gun clean, dress again. No shoes this time—quieter that way.
Someone was on my land tonight.
Not an animal. Not a shadow playing tricks. Someone with hands. With breath. With intent.
If I hadn’t been standing on that balcony—just watching the trees sway like they always do—what would I have found come morning? A cut fence? A shattered window? A body cooling on my floor? Or worse?
I don’t plan on learning the answer. Someone tested my line tonight. Someone crept close enough to taste what I protect. Close enough to make a decision. And they walked away.
But next time? Next time they won’t make it that far. Next time they’ll find out what happens when you cross the wrong man’s threshold. When you touch what he’s claimed. When you forget that monsters don’t knock.
Next time—I won’t be on the balcony. I’ll be waiting in the dark. And I won’t be alone.
I pull out my phone and hit the one number that can turn this place into a fortress instead of a tomb.
Saxon picks up on the second ring. Guess I really am on his speed-dial.
Once upon a time he was Special Agent Saxon North—FBI golden boy, top of the Violent Crimes Unit—until he crossed the wrong people while chasing a human-trafficking ring named The Aviary. Saxon cut through all the governmental red tape and went off-script before he was pushed out of the unit.
Most men would’ve unraveled. Saxon built an empire.
North Security Services started in a rented storage unit with a folding table and a single Glock.
Five years later he operates out of a glass fortress downtown, pulling seven-figure contracts to guard CEOs, cartel defectors, and half the politicians who once blackballed him.
Lady Luck must like rebels, because every gamble he’s taken has paid off.
He’s richer now than the Bureau’s director will ever dream of being—and twice as untouchable.
His hiring rule is simple: no amateurs.
Everyone on his payroll is ex-special ops, former federal, or the kind of ghost who can wipe a hard drive—and a face—before breakfast. Together they’ve become the city’s quietest nightmare: a private army in tailored suits, answering only to Saxon’s gravel-voiced orders and his iron-clad code.
Tonight, that army belongs to me.
“You must really be in trouble to be calling me,” Saxon says, his voice like rich syrup as it carries down the line.
“I need you at the estate. Now.”
“What’s the damage?”
“None yet. But someone slipped through a mile of traps like they had a map.”
A pause—quiet breathing, gears turning. “All right. I’m rolling with a six-man strike team and a truck full of toys. Two hours.”
“Make it one,” I growl.
“Try not to get shot before we get there,” he says, before he hangs up without a goodbye.
An hour later, a matte-black Suburban growls up the drive, followed by a cargo van with no plates. Saxon steps out first—broad, scar over one eyebrow, eyes that miss nothing. He shakes my hand once, hard.
“I want every blind spot gone,” I say.
“You got it.” He nods to his crew—six shadows in tactical gear. “First sweep in five minutes. Then we build you a wall no ghost can walk through.”
We hit the perimeter. Saxon’s tech guy, Finch, plants new motion beacons the size of bottle caps every ten yards. They talk in short bursts:
“Thermal grid here.”
“Pressure mesh over this trench.”
“Smart cams up the cedar line—facial recog in real time.”
Saxon turns to me. “Any inside staff you don’t trust? ”
“Only people in this house are family,” I say, then add, “I want them safe.”
He grunts. “We’ll run background anyway. Even Grandma.”
“Nina will gut you herself if she catches you digging.”
Saxon almost smiles. “I look forward to the challenge.”
By noon, the estate looks like a battlefield paused on the inhale—quiet, but ready to detonate.
Cameras now blink from high branches, their lenses sweeping the grounds like watchful eyes.
Infrared. Night vision. Motion-sensitive.
A predator’s dream, or a trespasser’s worst nightmare.
Along the inner perimeter, bright orange signs have been staked every twenty feet, each stamped with a single threat in bold black font:
WARNING: CLAYMORES ARMED. DO NOT STEP FURTHER.
The mines are fake. But the terror they stir? That part’s very real.
Saxon’s men move with practiced precision—tall, scarred, unbothered by the chill that’s settled into the soil.
They communicate with nods and brief murmurs through comms. Not a smile among them.
No bravado. These men weren’t hired for muscle—they’re killers turned sentinels.
Ghosts in black, locked and loaded, each of them placed with strategic intent.
Like chess pieces. Not pawns. Knights and rooks. Protecting the king.
From my perch on the east wing balcony, I watch as the last drone lifts off the helipad near the orchard—its rotors cut the air with a high-pitched whine, then settle into a buzz as it arcs skyward.
It’s smaller than my palm but sees farther than any man could, eyes in the sky that feed straight into Saxon’s encrypted surveillance grid .
For the first time since last night when I spotted that shadow near the cedars, my pulse begins to slow. Just a fraction. Just enough to feel the tightness in my chest start to ease.
But I don’t let it go completely.
Because the bastard who stepped foot on my land without setting off a single alarm? He knew what he was doing. That wasn’t a test. It was a message.
And if he’s stupid enough to come back? He’ll learn the difference between trespassing… and suicide.