CHAPTER 15
Gemma
The heavy thud of the boot against the floorboards upstairs completely shatters the quiet intimacy of the basement.
It feels like the air pressure in the room drops instantly. The euphoric high of draining four billion dollars from the syndicate evaporates, replaced by a cold, paralyzing terror that roots me to the mesh chair.
"Pull the drive," Callum orders again. His voice is entirely stripped of the warmth it held ten seconds ago. He is a machine again.
My fingers are shaking so badly I fumble with the small plastic casing of the encrypted drive. I yank it out of the secure port. The primary monitor flashes an error message, complaining about an improper ejection, but I don't care. The data is transferred. The money is gone.
I shove the drive deep into the front pocket of my jeans, pressing my hand over it.
Above us, the floorboards creak again.
It isn't a frantic rush. It is a slow, methodical pacing. Someone is walking through the living room, directly over the basement ceiling, taking their time.
I look at Callum. He is standing at the bottom of the concrete stairs, the M4 carbine raised to his shoulder. The red dot of his optical sight is painted dead center on the heavy steel door at the top of the stairwell. His left hand is resting near the manual detonator wired to the claymore mines.
"How did they find us?" I whisper, my voice cracking. "The connection was layered. It should have taken days to trace the IP."
"They didn't trace the IP," Callum replies, not taking his eyes off the door. "They traced the physical property records. I underestimated their leverage with the federal courts."
"Is it the whole team?"
"If it was a full assault team, they would have breached the front door with explosives," he says quietly. "They are trying to be quiet. It’s a small element. A scout, or a specialized tracker."
The handle of the steel door at the top of the stairs slowly turns.
It doesn't rattle. It doesn't shake. It just turns with a smooth, oiled click. The door pushes open, revealing the dark hallway of the ground floor.
Callum’s finger tightens on the trigger of the M4.
"Callum?" a voice calls out from the top of the stairs.
I freeze.
The voice isn't deep or heavily accented like the mercenary leader from the glass house. It’s a young, distinctly American voice, laced with a heavy layer of nervous exhaustion. It echoes down the concrete stairwell, sounding entirely out of place in a war zone.
Callum lowers the barrel of the rifle a fraction of an inch. The hard, lethal tension in his shoulders doesn't vanish, but it shifts, morphing into a dangerous kind of confusion.
"Ben?" Callum says, his voice cutting through the quiet basement.
"Yeah, man. It’s me." A figure steps into the doorway at the top of the stairs.
He is wearing a faded graphic t-shirt, a pair of dark jeans, and a heavy winter coat. He looks like a grad student who hasn't slept during finals week. He holds both of his hands up in the air, palms open and visible. He doesn't have a weapon.
"Don't blow me up," Ben says, looking down at the claymore mines positioned at the bottom of the stairs. He swallows hard. "I know you have your finger on the clacker. Please don't press it."
"I told you to go to Montreal," Callum says. He doesn't lower the rifle. "How did you find this property?"
"I didn't trace the property records," Ben says, taking one very slow, careful step down the concrete stairs.
"I traced you . I know you, Callum. When the syndicate started pulling the blind trust files, I knew you wouldn't run.
I knew you would find a hardwired line to finish the hack.
This is the only ghost property you own with a subterranean fiber-optic connection. "
Callum finally lowers the M4, letting it hang from the tactical sling across his chest. He doesn't look relieved. He looks furious.
"You compromised a secure location," Callum says, his voice cold.
"I came to warn you!" Ben stops halfway down the stairs, dropping his hands.
He looks exhausted, running a hand through his messy hair.
"The syndicate didn't just pull the property records.
They put a physical bounty on anyone connected to your aliases.
They raided my apartment in Queens two hours ago. "
My stomach drops. "Did they hurt you?"
Ben finally looks past Callum, his eyes landing on me. He takes in the oversized tactical jacket, the pale exhaustion on my face, and the way I am gripping my injured side.
"No," Ben says, offering me a weak, humorless smile.
"I have a panic room behind my closet. I wiped the servers, grabbed a go-bag, and slipped out the fire escape while they were tearing up my living room. But they know I’m your logistics guy.
They are going to hunt me just like they are hunting you. "
"Which is why you should be on a plane to Canada," Callum states.
"I can't go to Canada, Callum. The border crossings are flagged. If I try to fly or drive across, the syndicate’s contacts in border patrol will snatch me.
" Ben walks the rest of the way down the stairs, carefully stepping over the tripwires for the claymores.
"I need your help to get out of the country. And you need me."
"I do not need you," Callum says flatly.
"Yes, you do." Ben stops at the bottom of the stairs, crossing his arms. He looks at the primary monitor, noting the Transfer Complete message. He lets out a low whistle. "You actually did it. You bankrupted them."
"The accounts are empty," I confirm, my voice still shaky.
"That’s great," Ben says, turning back to Callum. "But it doesn't solve your immediate problem. The syndicate might be broke, but Marcus Thorne isn't. He has personal offshore accounts that weren't tied to the syndicate ledger. And he just doubled the bounty on your heads using his own money."
Callum’s jaw tightens. "Where is Marcus?"
"He flew to a private compound in the Hamptons," Ben says. "He’s hiding behind a private security detail, waiting for the dust to settle. If you want this to end, you can't just steal the syndicate’s money. You have to cut off the head of the snake. You have to kill Marcus."
I stare at Ben, the reality of his words sinking in.
He is right. As long as Marcus Thorne is alive and has money, he will keep paying people to hunt us. He has to maintain the lie that we stole the drive to protect himself from the syndicate’s wrath.
"I can get you into the Hamptons compound," Ben continues, his voice gaining confidence. "I have the blueprints. I know the security rotation. But I need you to get me out of the country afterward."
Callum looks at Ben for a long, silent moment. He is weighing the variables. He is calculating the risk of trusting a logistics broker who just compromised a safe house against the tactical advantage of having inside intel on Marcus’s compound.
"Fine," Callum finally says. "But we leave immediately. If you figured out I was here, the syndicate’s analysts are only a few hours behind you."
"Way ahead of you," Ben says, turning back toward the stairs. "I parked a clean van in the trees about a mile down the road. I didn't want to drive it onto the property in case they had drones up."
"Go power down the servers," Callum tells me, gesturing to the desk.
I turn back to the rig. I close the terminal windows, shut down the VPN connection, and initiate the physical wipe protocol on the hard drives. The fans spin down, the monitors going black one by one. The basement is plunged into the dim, ambient light of the single overhead bulb.
I stand up, wincing as a sharp spike of pain hits my ribs. The medication is definitely wearing off faster than I anticipated.
"Are you okay?" Ben asks, watching me grab the edge of the desk for support.
"I’m fantastic," I lie, forcing myself to stand straight. "Just a little stiff from sitting in a chair while robbing a cartel."
Callum doesn't ask if I am okay. He walks over, wraps his hand firmly around my upper arm, and takes most of my weight as he guides me toward the stairs.
"We need to move," he says to Ben.
We walk up the concrete stairs, leaving the basement behind.
The ground floor of the farmhouse is quiet. The afternoon sun is beginning to set, casting long, orange shadows across the polished hardwood floors. The house feels cold, the heating system struggling to keep up with the dropping temperature outside.
"The van is this way," Ben says, leading us out the back door and onto the rotting porch.
We step out into the overgrown field. The tall grass brushes against my jeans, soaking the denim with evening dew. The cold air bites at my face, but the heavy tactical jacket keeps my core warm.
We walk in silence for twenty minutes, following a narrow deer trail through the dense woods.
My breathing becomes ragged. Every step jars my ribs, sending a fresh wave of agony radiating through my side. I bite my lip, refusing to slow down, refusing to be the liability that gets us killed.
Callum doesn't say anything, but his grip on my arm tightens, physically pulling me forward when my steps start to falter.
"Almost there," Ben calls back over his shoulder.
We break through the tree line and step onto a narrow, unpaved logging road. Parked in the shadows of a massive pine tree is a dark blue Ford Transit van. It looks like a commercial plumbing vehicle, complete with a fake company logo on the side panels.
"It’s registered to a shell company that hasn't been active in three years," Ben explains, pulling the keys from his pocket and unlocking the back doors. "It’s completely off the grid."
Callum lets go of my arm and walks to the back of the van, inspecting the interior. It is empty, save for a few moving blankets and a spare tire.
"Get in," Callum tells me.
I climb into the back of the van, sitting down heavily on one of the folded moving blankets. I lean my back against the metal wall, pulling my knees up slightly to ease the tension on my stitches.
Callum doesn't get into the back with me. He walks around to the passenger side, opening the door and sliding into the front seat. Ben gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.
The van rumbles to life, the diesel engine loud and unrefined compared to the smooth hum of the Subaru.
"Where to?" Ben asks, putting the van in gear.
"We need a staging area," Callum says, his voice carrying over the noise of the engine. "Somewhere close to the Hamptons, but outside the immediate surveillance grid."
"I know a motel in Riverhead," Ben suggests, pulling the van onto the dirt road. "It’s a cash-only place. No cameras in the parking lot. We can prep there before we hit Marcus’s compound."
"Drive," Callum orders.
The van bounces over the uneven road, heading south.
I sit in the dark cargo area, the metal walls vibrating against my back. The adrenaline of the escape is completely gone, leaving me alone with the throbbing pain in my side and the terrifying reality of what comes next.
We aren't just running anymore. We are actively hunting a billionaire who is protected by a private army.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of the tires on the asphalt.
The drive takes hours. The sun completely sets, plunging the back of the van into absolute darkness. I drift in and out of a restless, painful sleep, waking every time the van hits a pothole or takes a sharp turn.
Sometime around midnight, the van finally slows down.
I hear the crunch of gravel beneath the tires, and then the engine cuts off.
The back doors swing open.
The harsh, yellow glare of a sodium vapor streetlight floods the cargo area. Callum is standing outside, the M4 carbine slung across his back, his dark eyes scanning my face.
"We’re here," he says quietly.
I push myself up, my muscles screaming in protest. I shuffle toward the back of the van, reaching out to grab the edge of the door frame for support.
Callum doesn't wait for me to ask for help. He reaches in, wrapping his hands around my waist, and lifts me effortlessly out of the van, setting me down on the cracked pavement of the motel parking lot.
I look around.
The motel is a single-story, L-shaped building with faded pink doors and a flickering neon sign that reads Vacancy . It looks exactly like the kind of place where people go to hide, or to die.
"Ben is getting the key," Callum says, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back as he guides me toward the walkway.
"It’s very glamorous," I mutter, shivering in the cold night air.
"It’s secure," he replies.
We walk down the concrete pathway, stopping in front of Room 12. Ben jogs up a minute later, holding a brass key attached to a cheap plastic tag. He unlocks the door and pushes it open.
The room smells like stale smoke, cheap industrial cleaner, and old carpet. There are two full-size beds covered in faded floral bedspreads, a small tube television bolted to a dresser, and a single window covered by heavy, blackout curtains.
"Home sweet home," Ben says, dropping his go-bag onto the floor near the door.
I walk past him, heading straight for the bed closest to the bathroom. I don't bother taking off my boots or the tactical jacket. I just collapse onto the mattress, lying on my right side to protect my ribs.
I am so tired I feel like I am vibrating.
Callum walks into the room, locking the deadbolt and sliding the chain into place. He drops his tactical bag onto the small table near the window and turns to face Ben.
"Show me the blueprints," Callum demands, his voice completely devoid of exhaustion.
Ben sighs, unzipping his bag and pulling out a ruggedized laptop. "Give me a second to boot it up. The security at the compound is tight, Callum. They have biometric locks on the interior doors and an armed patrol on the perimeter."
"I don't care about the perimeter," Callum says, walking over to the table. "I care about the fastest route to the master bedroom."
I close my eyes, listening to the low murmur of their voices as they plan a murder.
It should terrify me. A week ago, the thought of sitting in a cheap motel room while two men planned an assassination would have sent me into a full-blown panic attack.
But as I lie on the lumpy mattress, listening to the cold, lethal certainty in Callum’s voice, I don't feel afraid.
I feel safe.
It is a deeply broken, entirely messed-up realization, but it is the truth. The monster is on my side. And tomorrow, we are going to burn Marcus Thorne’s world to the ground.