Chapter 20 Goldlight Blood #2
“Perfect.” I looked at Adrian. “We need surveillance. Transport. Backup if this goes wrong.”
“You're not listening.” Adrian's voice was starting to raise. “I said I need to know if you can finish this without getting killed. Not whether you can rush into another half-planned operation.”
“This is planned—”
“This is reactive. You just found out Webb exists and you're already preparing to confront him in public.” Adrian stood.
“Then what do you suggest?” Cal's voice was ice. “We sit here and build the perfect plan while Webb continues operating? While Harrow closes more loose ends and buries more evidence?”
“I suggest you remember that Harrow isn't stupid. That he'll have anticipated exactly this move and prepared accordingly.” Adrian moved to the window. Looked out at Ravenswood's grounds. “Webb isn't the target. He's bait. And you're so focused on getting answers that you're not seeing the trap.”
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“We observe first. We confirm Webb's movements. We identify who's protecting him and how.” Adrian turned back to face us. “Then we make a move that Harrow won't anticipate. That uses his expectations against him.”
“That could take days.”
“Better days than dead.” Adrian's expression was implacable. “You want my resources? You play this smart. You wait for the right moment instead of rushing in because grief is making you reckless.”
Adrian was right. And I knew it.
Cal's hand found mine under the table.
“Fine,” I said. “We wait for the right opening.”
“Good.” Adrian nodded to Dmitri. “Pull everything on Webb's security detail. Known associates. Communication patterns. I want to know who he talks to and when.”
“Already on it,” Dmitri said without looking up from his laptop.
“Luka, check underworld connections. See if Webb's buying protection from anyone outside Harrow's immediate network.”
Luka appeared in the doorway like he'd been summoned. “Done. He's got connections to a private security firm. Ex-military types. They provide discreet protection for professionals who need it.”
“Troy, identify Webb's likely routes and timing. Where he's most exposed.”
“The gala tonight,” Troy said. “Entry is through a public courtyard. Exit will be the same. Thirty-second window where he's vulnerable.”
“Perfect.” Adrian looked at Noah. “Coordinate with Ash. Keep the household calm. I don't want anyone outside this room knowing what we're planning.”
Noah nodded. “Understood.”
Adrian turned back to us. “You two will observe Webb tonight. From distance. No contact. No engagement. Just surveillance. Understand?”
“Yes,” Cal said.
“And if he makes a move? If something happens?”
“Then you improvise. But your primary objective is intelligence gathering, not confrontation.” Adrian's voice was hard. “Do I have your word on that?”
I met his gaze. “You have my word.”
“Cal?”
“You have it.”
“Then get out of my office and prepare properly.”
We spent the afternoon doing exactly that. Cal pulled every piece of information about Webb he could access. I studied patterns. Identified weakness points. Built contingencies for scenarios that ranged from simple observation to active combat.
By evening, we had a plan. Not perfect. But functional.
The gala was being held at a converted courthouse that had been turned into event space. Appropriate. Lawyers and judges and court administrators celebrating themselves while the systems they operated continued destroying lives.
Cal and I positioned ourselves across the street. Different vantage points. Separate enough to not be obvious. Close enough to coordinate if needed.
Webb arrived at eight. Black car. Professional driver. Two security personnel who flanked him through the courtyard entrance. He looked nervous. Kept glancing around like he expected trouble.
Smart man. Trouble was definitely coming. Just not tonight.
“Target acquired,” Cal's voice in my earpiece. “Two escorts. Professional grade. They're scanning for threats.”
“I see them.” I tracked Webb's movement through the crowd. “He's more paranoid than his pattern suggested.”
“Harrow probably warned him.”
We watched Webb disappear into the building. Watched his security detail take positions. Watched the party continue inside through windows that showed wealthy people celebrating their own importance.
“This is pointless,” I said after two hours. “We're not learning anything we didn't already know.”
“Patience—”
The explosion cut him off.
Something had happened inside and it was violent enough to trigger an evacuation.
“Webb's coming out. East exit. Moving fast.”
He was running through the side courtyard. His security detail trying to keep up. Behind them—more men. Not security. Attackers.
This wasn't evacuation. This was ambush.
“They're hitting him,” I said. Already moving. “In public. They don't care who sees.”
“Dom, no—we're supposed to observe—”
“Fuck observation. They're going to kill him.”
Webb was trying to reach his car while his security detail was engaging the attackers.
One of Webb's escorts went down. Blood spreading across expensive pavement under gold light from the building's exterior lamps.
Cal appeared beside me. “You're an idiot.”
“Agreed. Help me anyway.”
We moved together. I cleared path with size and controlled violence, shouldering through the panicked crowd. Cal navigated by memory and photographic recall of the courtyard's layout, already three steps ahead, calculating angles and exits.
Webb saw us coming. His eyes widened. Recognition or terror, I couldn't tell.
Then someone grabbed him from behind. Dragged him toward a waiting van. This wasn't just assassination. This was extraction. Someone wanted Webb alive.
I closed the distance fast. Five attackers total.
The first one moved to intercept me, his hand already reaching for concealed carry. I didn't give him time to draw. Drove my fist into his solar plexus with enough force to collapse his diaphragm. He doubled over. I brought my knee up into his face. Cartilage crunched. He went down hard.
The second came at me with a baton. Swung for my head with practised efficiency. I blocked with my forearm, felt the impact reverberate down to bone, then grabbed his wrist and twisted. The joint popped. He screamed. I drove my elbow into his temple. He crumpled.
Cal engaged two more simultaneously. Moved like water, redirecting momentum, using their size against them.
Disarmed the first with a wrist lock that made bones grind audibly.
Swept the second's legs, followed him down with a brutal knee to the ribs that made breathing impossible. Both went down within seconds.
The fifth attacker had Webb. Dragged him toward the van with professional efficiency, one arm locked around Webb's throat, using him as a shield. Smart. Made clean engagement difficult.
I started forward.
A dagger appeared in the attacker's shoulder.
Just materialized. One moment his arm was intact, the next seven inches of steel protruded from the muscle. He screamed. Released Webb. Spun toward the source of the throw.
Lori dropped from the building's second-story balcony. Landed in a crouch that absorbed the impact like she weighed nothing. Rose with fluid grace, another dagger already in her hand.
“Evening, boys,” she said. Smiled like this was entertainment. “Hope I'm not late to the party.”
“Christ,” Cal muttered. “You.”
“Me.” She threw another dagger. It caught the wounded attacker in the thigh. He went down howling. “Surprised to see me? You shouldn't be. I go where the interesting work is.”
More attackers emerged from the van. Six of them. Armed. Coordinated. They spread out with tactical precision, surrounding us in a loose semicircle. Professional muscle who'd done this before.
“We need to move,” Cal said. “Now.”
“We need to fight,” I corrected. “They'll follow us anyway.”
“Both of you need to stop arguing and start hitting people,” Lori interjected. Threw another dagger. It embedded in an attacker's gun hand. The weapon clattered to pavement. “I can't do all the work myself. Well, I could. But where's the fun in that?”
The attackers moved as one.
I caught the first with a straight punch that snapped his head back. Followed with a combination to his ribs, felt bones crack under my knuckles. He staggered. I grabbed his jacket, used his momentum to throw him into his colleague. They went down tangled.
Cal fought like a surgeon. Precise strikes to nerve clusters, pressure points, joints.
Every movement calculated for maximum damage with minimum effort.
He dropped an attacker with a palm strike to the nose, crushed another's windpipe with surgical accuracy, moved through the chaos like he'd choreographed it in advance.
Lori was pure violence wrapped in elegance.
She moved like death dancing. Spun inside an attacker's guard, drove her dagger up under his ribs with clinical precision.
Twisted the blade. Released it. He collapsed gurgling.
She already had another blade out, threw it across the courtyard into someone's throat before they could draw their weapon. Blood sprayed. The body dropped.
“Dom, right side!” Cal shouted.
I turned. Blocked a pipe aimed at my skull. Grabbed the attacker's arm, used his forward momentum to flip him over my hip. He hit pavement hard enough to crack his skull. Didn't get up.
“Appreciated,” I grunted.
“Don't mention it. Left!”
Another attacker. This one had a knife. Came at me low, aiming for my kidney. I sidestepped, caught his wrist, drove my knee into his elbow. The joint hyperextended with a wet pop. He screamed. I silenced him with a headbutt that shattered his nose.
“You two fight like you're married,” Lori observed. Threw two daggers simultaneously. Both found targets. Throat and eye socket respectively. “It's adorable. Deadly, but adorable.”
“We're not married,” I said.