25. Jon
TWENTY-FIVE
Jon
Blood pounds in my temples. Not fear—focus.
My wrists burn where the restraints bite into my skin. The thought of Aria alone with Wolfe sends something primal clawing up my spine. I force it down. Emotion is a luxury I can’t afford.
“Family reunion,” Wolfe said. Tonight . The words twist in my gut like a knife.
I work methodically at the right restraint. Seventeen minutes of silent, controlled movements. The sedative hasn’t fully cleared my system, making each twist of my wrist require double the concentration. Blood slicks the metal as I work the padding, creating just enough space.
I dislocate my thumb. There’s no alternative. White-hot pain explodes up my arm. My teeth clench against it, jaw muscles bunching. One smooth pull, and my right hand slips free.
With my free hand, the remaining restraints take seconds to release. The hidden pressure points give way easily when attacked from the outside.
Standing sends the room tilting. I breathe through it, riding the vertigo until it subsides. The concrete floor is ice against my bare feet.
The crystal decanter Wolfe left. I drink, washing away the chemical taste lingering in my mouth. Water. Not drugged—he wouldn’t bother. He thinks the restraints are enough.
His mistake.
The antique leather chair he brought specially catches my eye.
Symbol of his arrogance. I strip off my bloodied shirt, wrap it around my fist, and strike the chair where the wooden frame is weakest. The crack seems deafening in the silent room.
Three more strikes and I have what I need—a foot-long metal support rod with a jagged end.
Now the waiting. I position myself in the blind spot beneath the northwest camera and go still. Heart rate sixty-two beats per minute. Breathing shallow and silent.
The guards rotate every thirty minutes.
Minutes stretch. My muscles remain loose, ready. The lock finally disengages with a soft click.
A guard steps in, hand resting casually on his holstered weapon. His eyes track to the empty chair, the bloody restraints. Pupils dilate. Breathing accelerates. He reaches for his radio.
Too late.
I drive the metal bar into the side of his knee. Cartilage tears with a wet sound. As he drops, a strangled cry catches in his throat. My hand clamps over his mouth, driving him backward. The taser from his belt is in my hand before his back hits the floor.
“Not a sound.” Metal presses against his windpipe. “Blink if you understand.”
Terror widens his eyes. He blinks rapidly.
“How many guards in the compound?”
He hesitates. I increase pressure on his throat, just enough to restrict airflow without crushing the larynx.
“Eight,” he chokes. “Plus Mr. Wolfe.”
“Where’s Aria Holbrook?”
His eyes dart away. The subtle tension in his facial muscles tells me he’s preparing a lie.
I activate the taser an inch from his face. The crack and sizzle of electricity fills the small room. “Try again.”
“Main house,” he gasps. “But I swear I don’t know which room. Security rotation keeps us down here. We don’t go upstairs.”
The micro-expressions match his words. He’s telling the truth—or at least what he believes is true.
“The other prisoner? Marcus Holbrook.”
“Cell B-2. One corridor over.”
“When’s the next guard check?”
“Fifteen minutes. Johnson will radio when I don’t respond.”
I zip tie his hands and feet with his own restraints, gag him with strips of my torn shirt. The radio at his belt crackles to life.
“Check-in, Section C.”
I adjust my pitch, mimicking the cadence and inflection I heard in his voice earlier. “All clear.”
Silence stretches for three heartbeats. “Repeat check-in.”
They’re suspicious. The timing’s off, or my voice wasn’t close enough. I place the guard’s radio into my pocket.
I drag the unconscious guard to the camera blind spot, take his security pass, and check his weapon—9mm Glock, full magazine, round chambered.
The corridor beyond is deserted—concrete walls, industrial lighting, numbered doors. Cameras every twenty feet, positioned for maximum coverage with minimal blind spots. Professional security setup. No windows, cool dry air—we’re underground.
The security station at the end of the hall shows feeds from around the compound. A sprawling estate. Main house, outbuildings, perimeter fence. One monitor displays another cell—Marcus pacing like a caged animal, disheveled and haggard.
I scan the security system, memorizing the compound layout. We’re beneath the main house. Two guards assigned to detention level, four patrolling the grounds, two in the main house, plus Wolfe. Nine total.
Whatever “family reunion” Wolfe mentioned could be happening soon. I need to move.
The stairwell door requires the guard’s keycard. It opens with a soft click that sounds thunderous in the quiet corridor. Three steps up, and alarms begin to wail.
“Security breach, detention level. All personnel, secure positions.”
I take the stairs three at a time, emerging into a service corridor. Red emergency lights pulse along the ceiling. A voice echoes over an intercom system—controlled, professional. Not panicked. These aren’t amateur security contractors. They’re trained professionals.
The corridor splits ahead—left toward the main house, right toward what looks like a utility area.
I move right, staying tight to the walls where cameras are less likely to catch movement. The corridor opens into a maintenance area—tools, electrical panels, a door marked “Server Room.”
It’s locked. The guard’s keycard doesn’t work here. Different security protocol.
Footsteps echo behind me—heavy, multiple sets. I duck behind a stack of supply crates as two guards rush past, weapons drawn, heading toward the detention level.
The maintenance room across the hall is unlocked. Inside, I find tool racks, supply shelves, and—jackpot—a building systems diagram on the wall showing electrical, plumbing, and communications infrastructure.
The main house has a dedicated office on the first floor, east wing. If Wolfe runs his operation from here, that’s where I’ll find information.
I grab tools that might prove useful—screwdriver, wire cutters, electrical tape—and stuff them in my pockets. The radio chatter from the fallen guard’s unit crackles with coordinated search patterns. They’re sweeping the compound systematically, working outward from the detention level.
The service corridor continues past the maintenance area, eventually connecting to the main house through a pantry adjacent to the kitchen. According to the diagram, it’s the least monitored approach.
Three minutes of careful movement brings me to the pantry door. Voices filter through—kitchen staff preparing dinner. The smell of roasting meat and expensive wine wafts under the door. My stomach tightens. The “family reunion” must be happening soon.
I wait until the voices move away, then slip through into a gleaming industrial kitchen. Steam rises from pots on professional-grade burners. A rack of knives gleams on the wall. I take one—six-inch blade, perfectly balanced. It disappears into my waistband.
The kitchen opens onto a service hallway that connects to the main house. I follow it, encountering no one. The security alerts must be contained to avoid alarming whoever’s in the main house.
The hall opens into a grand foyer—marble floors, crystal chandelier, sweeping staircase. Opulent. Old money mixed with new. I press against the wall, listening. Voices drift from somewhere deeper in the house—muffled, indistinct, but one is definitely female.
Aria.
Something loosens in my chest. She’s alive. The relief is physical, a wave that nearly throws my focus.
Steady. Focus. Plan.
Don’t rush in. Stop and think. Process.
It’s saved my ass more times than I can count. I can’t rush in blind. I need backup, which means I need to communicate with my team. From the sounds in the dining room, Aria’s not under immediate threat. This gives me time.
The office should be down the east corridor according to the building diagram. I move silently across the foyer, staying low, using columns and furniture for cover. My bare feet make no sound on the cold marble.
The east corridor is lined with closed doors. The third one—slightly ajar—shows a slice of what looks like an office. No voices or movement inside.
I slip in, close the door silently behind me. The room is everything you’d expect from a man like Wolfe—leather-bound books, antique desk, oil paintings. But it’s the modern equipment that catches my attention—a computer, an encrypted phone system, and a document safe in the corner.
The computer is password-protected. The safe is biometric. But there’s a file cabinet against the wall, old-fashioned with a simple lock. The kind of place someone might keep less sensitive but still important documents.
I should keep moving, rescue Aria, but Wolfe said he wanted her to hear “the truth” about Marcus. If there’s evidence of what that might be… I’ll give that time to marinate.
The lock picks easily with the screwdriver from maintenance. Inside, folders are meticulously organized by name and date. One label jumps out: “Holbrook, Marcus - 1997-Present.”
I pull it, flip it open. My blood turns to ice.
Police reports. Hospital records. Surveillance photos.
Marcus standing over a woman’s body, blood staining his hands. Crime scene photos of a luxury apartment, furniture overturned, signs of struggle. Autopsy report: cause of death, blunt force trauma.
Newspaper clippings. “Business Mogul’s Wife Dies in Tragic Accident.” “Marcus Holbrook Cleared of All Charges.” “Influential Family Mourns Loss of Rebecca Holbrook.”
Rebecca. Aria’s mother.
My hands don’t shake. Training overrides the shock. I keep turning pages. Bank statements showing massive payments to police officers, medical examiners, witnesses. Evidence of a cover-up so thorough it’s breathtaking—heartbreaking.
More folders. More evidence. A pattern spanning decades—women silenced, accidents staged, investigations derailed. Marcus isn’t just corrupt; he’s a monster.
And Wolfe has been documenting it all. For years. Building a case piece by piece.
The question pulses behind my eyes: Why? What’s his endgame?
A thicker folder catches my eye. “Project Eclipse - 1995.” Inside, papers so old the edges have yellowed.
Shipping manifests to countries with lax regulations.
Bank statements showing millions flowing through shell corporations.
Photographs of Marcus at private airfields, shaking hands with men whose faces are familiar from international watchlists.
Then more disturbing images—makeshift medical facilities in what look like abandoned warehouses. People strapped to beds. Kids. Surgical equipment. Body parts labeled and packaged.
Organ harvesting. A criminal operation Marcus apparently ran in developing countries.
The folder contains meticulous financial records. Profits funneled through offshore accounts. Bribes to officials. All with Marcus’s signature or personal authorization codes. It’s sickening.
The last page is a newspaper clipping, dated April 12, 1997. Three months before Aria was born. A small article about a humanitarian investigation shut down due to “lack of evidence.” In the margin, a handwritten note in precise script: “He buried it all, but I kept copies.”
The pieces click together with sickening clarity. Marcus ran a horrific criminal enterprise. When investigators got close, he used his wealth and influence to bury the evidence and silence witnesses, but somehow, Wolfe obtained proof of everything.
And now he wants Aria to know the truth about her father.
Footsteps echo down the hall—approaching. I stuff the most damning documents into my waistband, replace the folder, and close the cabinet.
A landline phone sits on the desk. Direct line out. I pick up the receiver, dial Guardian HRS’s secure emergency number from memory, and press it to my ear. It rings once.
“Guardian HRS, code verification.” The operator’s voice is crisp and professional.
“Delta-Three, authorization echo-seven-niner-tango-four.” My voice barely above a whisper. “Requesting immediate assistance. Hostage situation. Marcus and Aria Holbrook held by Damien Wolfe. Nine hostiles, heavily armed.”
“Location?”
“Unknown estate, forested area. Tracking my implant?”
“Signal acquired. Delta team already mobilized. ETA thirty-eight minutes.”
Too long. “Tell them to hurry. Wolfe’s planning something tonight. Some kind of ‘family reunion.’ I’ve found evidence?—”
Footsteps in the hall, approaching fast.
“On the move. Will maintain radio silence.” I hang up before she can respond.
I move to the door. Voices grow louder—coming this way.
“Please, just tell me what this is about.” Aria’s voice, strained but steady.
“Patience, my dear. Marcus will be joining us shortly. Then all will be explained.”
Wolfe. They’re coming this way.
I slip out of the office, scanning for cover. A door across the hall stands partially open—a small library or sitting room. I duck inside just as Wolfe and Aria turn the corner.
Through the crack in the door, I see her—hair pulled back, wearing a pale blue dress that isn’t hers, face pale but composed. No visible injuries. The tight knot in my chest loosens fractionally.
They pass the library, continuing down the hall. Wolfe’s voice drifts back to me.
“Dinner is almost ready. I’ve instructed the staff to bring Marcus up shortly.”
“Why are you doing this?” Aria’s question carries the edge of someone maintaining control by sheer will.
“Because you deserve the truth, my dear. And tonight, you’ll finally have it.”
Their voices fade as they turn the corner. The dining room. That’s where this is happening.
The documents press against my skin, burning like a brand. Evidence of the monster who raised her. The truth Wolfe wants her to hear.
But not like this. Not as a weapon in whatever vendetta he’s pursuing.
I check the Glock—full magazine, round chambered. The knife at my waistband sits ready. With my implant, Guardian HRS will have my location. Delta team is already en route.
All I need is time.
But how long? An hour? More?
Too long.
From down the hall comes the sound of chairs moving, crystal clinking. Dinner is starting. The “family reunion” Wolfe promised.
I move silently toward the dining room, every sense hyperalert. My bare feet make no sound on the polished floors. The knife’s weight is familiar against my hip. The gun sits ready in my hand.
The documents burn against my skin. Truth as a weapon. More devastating than any bullet.
Eight guards plus Wolfe. Bad odds.
I’ve faced worse.