CHAPTER 14
THE MECHANICAL EYE
POV: SILAS
Peace is a lie. It is merely the breath before the scream.
For three days, the Estate has been quiet. The storm passed, leaving behind a scoured, brilliant blue sky and an ocean that laps lazily against the cliffs. Inside the house, a fragile rhythm has established itself.
I work in my office, monitoring the shipping lanes and the money laundering operations that keep Vane Enterprises at the top of the food chain.
Ivy paints in the conservatory. We eat dinner together.
She sleeps in my bed, curled against my side, stealing my body heat while pretending she hates my touch.
It is a domestic purgatory. And I am addicted to it.
I stand on the balcony of the master suite, overlooking the grounds.
It is mid-afternoon. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and salt.
From here, I can see the glass roof of the conservatory glinting in the sun.
I know she is in there. I checked the cameras five minutes ago.
She is working on a new canvas, her face smudged with charcoal, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
She is painting the cliffs. But in the shadows of the rocks, she is hiding monsters. I saw the outline of a wolf in the charcoal strokes.
I smile, taking a sip of my espresso. She is processing her trauma through art. She is making sense of her cage.
Then, I hear it.
It is a sound so faint, so out of place in the natural symphony of the woods, that anyone else would have missed it.
Whirrrrrr.
It sounds like a pissed-off hornet. But hornets don't maintain a constant, mechanical frequency.
I freeze. My senses shift instantly from relaxed to lethal. I scan the tree line, my eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun.
There.
Hovering fifty feet above the north perimeter fence, just below the tree canopy. A black speck.
It’s a drone.
A quadcopter. Military grade, by the look of the stabilization. It’s not moving erratically like a toy flown by a tourist. It is holding a perfect, steady hover. Its camera lens is pointed directly at the conservatory.
The ceramic cup in my hand shatters.
Hot coffee scalds my hand, dripping onto the stone balcony, but I don't feel it. I only feel the cold, white-hot rage flooding my veins.
It is looking at her.
Someone is watching my wife. Someone is violating the sanctity of my walls, peering into the glass box where I keep my most precious possession.
"Nikolai," I whisper. The name tastes like bile.
I don't run. Running attracts attention. I turn and walk back into the bedroom, moving with purposeful, deadly speed.
I go to the safe in the wall. I punch in the code. Beep. Beep. Beep. Click.
I bypass the handguns. This requires range. I pull out the HK416 assault rifle. I check the magazine. Full. I grab a suppressor and thread it onto the barrel.
I grab my tablet from the desk. I sync it to the Estate’s electronic warfare suite. I tap the screen, isolating the frequency the drone is using to transmit.
Signal Origin: 1.2 miles North-Northwest. Static position.
The operator is close. He’s sitting in a car, or crouching in the bushes just beyond my property line, thinking he is clever. Thinking he is safe.
He is wrong.
I holster a Glock 19 at my hip and clip a hunting knife to my belt. I slide the rifle onto its sling, letting it hang across my chest.
I look at the monitor. The drone is still there, watching.
I need to move. I need to hunt.
But first, I need to secure the asset.
I cannot leave Ivy in the conservatory. It’s a glass house. If the drone is a spotter for a sniper team...
The thought sends a spike of adrenaline through me that nearly brings me to my knees.
I leave the room, taking the stairs two at a time. I don't call out for the guards. I want them on the perimeter. This is personal.
I burst into the conservatory.
Ivy jumps, dropping her charcoal stick. It clatters onto the stone floor, shattering into black dust.
"Silas?" She turns, her eyes widening when she sees the rifle across my chest. She takes in the dark clothes, the tension radiating off me in waves, the look in my eyes that promises murder.
"What is it?" she whispers, backing up until her hips hit the easel. "Is it... is it the storm again?"
"No," I say, closing the distance between us. "It’s a different kind of weather."
I grab her arm. My grip is bruising. I don't have time for gentleness.
"We’re leaving. Now."
"Silas, you’re hurting me! What’s happening?"
"Someone is watching," I snarl, pulling her toward the door. "There is a drone over the north wall. They are looking right at you."
She gasps, looking up at the glass roof, suddenly realizing how exposed she is. "A drone? Is it... is it him? The Russian?"
"Nikolai doesn't play with toys," I say grimly. "But he hires men who do."
I drag her out of the conservatory, across the lawn, and into the main house. I lock the heavy back doors and engage the steel shutters. The daylight is blotted out as metal sheets descend over the windows with a heavy, mechanical groan.
"Where are we going?" Ivy asks, trying to keep up with my long strides.
"Upstairs."
"Are we hiding?"
"You are hiding," I correct her. "I am hunting."
We reach the master bedroom. I kick the door shut and lock it. I walk her over to the bed—the massive, four-poster mahogany bed that has been our battleground of silence for three nights.
"Sit," I command.
She sits, trembling. "Silas, please don't leave me here alone. If there’s someone out there..."
"That is exactly why I am leaving," I say. "I am going to find the man holding the remote control, and I am going to ask him politely to stop."
"You’re going to kill him," she says, her voice flat.
"I’m going to take him apart."
I walk to the bedside table. I open the top drawer.
I pull out a pair of handcuffs.
They are heavy steel, standard police issue. Not the fuzzy, recreational kind. These are meant for restraint. For custody.
Ivy sees them. Her breath hitches. She scrambles back across the mattress, pressing her spine against the headboard.
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Silas, no. You can't."
"I have to," I say, my voice calm, reasonable, terrifying.
I climb onto the bed. She tries to kick me, but I catch her ankle effortlessly. I crawl over her, pinning her legs with my weight.
"I can't leave you roaming the house, Ivy. If they breach the perimeter while I’m gone, I need to know exactly where you are. I need to know you are safe."
"I’ll stay here!" she cries, tears spilling over. "I promise! I’ll lock the door! Please, don't tie me up. Please, Silas. It’s... I’m claustrophobic. You know that!"
"I know," I soothe, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "But fear is better than death."
I grab her left wrist.
"Give it to me."
"No!" She fights me. She scratches at my arm, her nails leaving red welts on my skin. "I’m not an animal! You can't chain me up!"
"I can do whatever is necessary to keep you breathing," I growl.
I pin her wrist to the thick mahogany post of the headboard. The wood is carved with intricate vines. It is solid as rock.
Click.
The cold metal bites into her skin. She gasps, a sound of pure defeat.
I lock the other cuff around the bedpost.
She pulls at it instantly. The chain rattles. It holds firm. She is tethered. She has maybe six inches of movement. Enough to sit up, enough to lie down, but not enough to leave the bed.
She looks at me, her chest heaving, hate and terror warring in her eyes.
"I hate you," she spits. "You’re sick."
"I am thorough," I correct her.
I check the fit of the cuff. Tight enough that she can't slip her hand through, loose enough that it won't cut off circulation unless she struggles violently.
"Stop fighting it," I advise softly. "You’ll only bruise yourself."
I stand up, adjusting my rifle.
"I will be back," I promise. "The house is sealed. Marta is in the safe room in the cellar. The guards have kill-on-sight orders for anyone approaching the house."
"What if you don't come back?" she whispers. The question hangs in the air, fragile and terrifying.
If I don't come back, she dies here. Chained to this bed. Starving. Or worse, Nikolai finds her like this.
The thought makes my blood run cold.
I lean down. I grab her chin, forcing her to look at me.
"I always come back," I vow. "I am the thing in the dark, Ivy. Nothing out there is scarier than me."
I kiss her hard. It’s a kiss of possession, a branding. I taste her fear, her salt.
"Wait for me."
I turn and walk to the door.
"Silas!" she screams, the sound tearing at my gut.
I don't look back. I can't. If I look back at her—chained, vulnerable, beautiful—I won't leave. And if I don't leave, the threat remains.
I walk out. I lock the bedroom door from the outside. Click.
I key the radio on my shoulder.
"Luca," I say, my voice devoid of humanity. "Perimeter breach, North Sector. I’m moving to intercept. Flush them toward me."
"Copy that, Boss. Hunting party is active."
I move through the silent house, a ghost in my own castle. I exit through the side door, slipping into the shadows of the forest.
The air is still. The birds are singing again, oblivious to the violence about to unfold.
I move fast, my boots silent on the pine needles. I follow the signal on the tablet. The dot is stationary.
He’s close.
The rage I felt earlier has distilled into a cold, sharp focus. I am not angry anymore. I am efficient.
I reach the edge of the property line. The twelve-foot fence looms ahead. Beyond it, a dense thicket of scrub oak and access roads.
I see a car. A nondescript gray sedan parked on an old logging trail. The window is down. An antenna is mounted on the roof.
I bring the rifle up. I sight through the scope.
I see a man in the driver’s seat. He’s wearing headphones. He’s looking at a screen. He’s watching the feed from the drone.
He’s looking at my house.
I don't shoot. Not yet.
Shooting is too easy. A bullet is a mercy.