CHAPTER 7
Gemma
The sound of the glass breaking upstairs doesn't register as glass at first.
It sounds like the sky tearing open. It is a massive, concussive roar that vibrates through the wooden floorboards above my head and travels straight down my spine. Dust and small flakes of drywall rain down from the basement ceiling, catching in the pale, eerie glow of the computer monitors.
I don't remember diving under the desk.
One second I was standing by the locked steel door, and the next, my knees are pressed hard against the cold concrete floor, my back shoved against the metal casing of the server tower.
I bring my hands up to cover my ears, but my right hand is heavy.
The cold, textured grip of the 9mm Sig Sauer presses against my cheek. I lower the weapon, staring at it in the dim light. My hands are shaking so violently that the metal frame rattles against the zipper of Callum’s cashmere hoodie.
If the basement door opens, and it is not me, you point this at the center of the doorway and you pull the trigger.
His instructions echo in my head, calm and clinical.
Above me, the heavy, rhythmic thud of automatic gunfire continues. It’s muffled by the thick floors, but the acoustic pressure is undeniable. Every shot is a physical punch to the air in the basement.
I squeeze my eyes shut, biting down on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.
He’s dead, my brain supplies, unhelpful and cruel. There are eight of them. They have automatic weapons. He went out there with a handgun and a tailored t-shirt. He’s dead, and you are trapped in a box.
A sharp, rhythmic chirping sound cuts through my panic.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I open my eyes. The noise is coming from the massive black Uninterruptible Power Supply unit sitting next to my left boot.
The main power to the house is dead, but the server rig is running on the UPS battery backup.
The three monitors above me are still glowing, casting a harsh, pale blue light across the dark basement.
I stare at the screens.
I am sitting under a desk, waiting to be executed, while a machine with sixty-four gigabytes of RAM and a direct fiber-optic line sits idle three feet above my head.
The fear in my stomach suddenly twists into something else. It isn't courage. Courage is for soldiers and heroes. This is pure, unadulterated rebellion. I refuse to die cowering in the dark, completely blind to the monsters coming to kill me.
I push myself out from under the desk.
My legs feel like they are made of water, but I force myself into the mesh chair. I set the heavy handgun down on the edge of the desk, keeping it within inches of my right hand. I push the oversized cashmere sleeves up past my elbows, baring my forearms.
I drop my fingers onto the mechanical keyboard.
If the server is running, the local network router is still drawing power from the battery backup. And if the local network is up, the internal IP addresses are active.
I open a command terminal, bypassing the decryption script I was working on earlier. I run a rapid network scan, searching for the active nodes on the local subnet.
Ping.
A list of IP addresses populates the black screen.
Most of them are dead—the smart refrigerator, the HVAC controls, the living room lights. But four addresses are still returning packets. They are drawing power via ethernet cables. Power Over Ethernet.
Security cameras.
I type the first IP address into a browser window. A login screen appears.
Username. Password.
I don't have time to run a brute-force dictionary attack. I stare at the blinking cursor. Callum Reed is a paranoid, methodical professional. He wouldn't use a default password, but he also wouldn't use something overly complex that he couldn't type in under two seconds during a breach.
I type Admin .
For the password, I think of the cold, clinical way he views his work. I type Parameters .
Access Denied.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The gunfire upstairs has stopped, replaced by an agonizing, heavy silence. Silence is worse than the shooting. Silence means someone is moving.
I try again. Variables .
Access Denied.
"Come on, you emotionally repressed psychopath," I whisper to the screen, my fingers hovering over the keys. "What do you care about?"
I look down at the dark gray cashmere hoodie I am wearing. I think about the way he looked at the shattered glass. The way he evaluates every single threat.
I type Control .
The screen goes black for a fraction of a second, and then the UI of a high-end surveillance system loads.
I let out a breath that burns my throat.
I split the primary monitor into a four-way grid, pulling up all the active camera feeds. The cameras are equipped with infrared night vision. The world outside the house is rendered in stark, ghostly grayscale.
Camera One is mounted above the front door, looking out over the gravel driveway. Empty.
Camera Two is the living room. The feed is chaotic. The massive glass windows are entirely gone, leaving jagged teeth of polycarbonate hanging from the frames. The minimalist furniture is shredded. Dust and debris float through the air like snow. But the room is empty.
Camera Three is the rear perimeter, looking out from the mudroom toward the dense tree line.
I lean closer to the screen.
There are three figures moving through the brush. They are wearing tactical gear, moving in a tight, coordinated formation. Their rifles are raised. They are communicating with hand signals, slowly advancing toward the shattered back porch.
I look for a fourth figure. I look for Callum.
He isn't there.
My chest tightens. They killed him. The thought is a cold, heavy weight dropping into my stomach. If he is dead, I am entirely alone. I have to grab the gun, unlock the door, and try to run into the woods before they breach the basement.
I reach for the Sig Sauer on the desk.
Then, on Camera Three, a shadow detaches itself from the trunk of a massive oak tree behind the three mercenaries.
I freeze, my hand hovering over the gun.
The shadow doesn't have a rifle. It doesn't have tactical gear. It is just a man in a dark t-shirt.
Callum.
He moves with a terrifying, fluid grace that the grayscale camera barely captures. He doesn't make a sound. He simply steps up behind the rearmost mercenary.
I watch, completely paralyzed by the screen, as Callum wraps one arm around the man’s face, pulling his head back sharply. His other hand moves in a short, brutal arc.
The mercenary drops like a stone.
The other two men don't even turn around. They didn't hear it.
Callum steps over the body, closing the distance to the second man.
I press my hand over my mouth, suppressing a gasp.
I have spent my entire adult life navigating the dark web.
I have seen the digital footprints of terrible crimes.
I have read the ledgers of syndicates and cartels.
But seeing violence rendered in lines of code is entirely different from watching a man you shared a pizza with systematically slaughter people in the dark.
He is a monster.
The realization isn't poetic. It is a harsh, visceral fact. The man who gave me his sweater because my fingers were cold is currently dragging a combat knife across a stranger’s throat with zero hesitation.
He drops the second man.
The third mercenary finally realizes he is alone.
He spins around, raising his rifle, but Callum is already inside his guard.
The camera frame rate stutters, blurring the movement.
Callum strips the rifle from the man’s grip, drives a knee into his chest, and buries the knife into the gap between the tactical vest and the collarbone.
Callum steps back, letting the body fall into the brush.
He stands in the ghostly infrared light, surrounded by three dead men. He doesn't look panicked. He doesn't look rushed. He simply wipes the blade of the knife on his trousers and turns his head, looking directly up at Camera Three.
Even through the grainy grayscale feed, the absolute, cold lethality in his eyes makes the hair on my arms stand up.
He knows I am watching.
He gives a single, sharp nod toward the house, then disappears back into the shadows of the tree line.
I exhale, my hand dropping away from my mouth. My pulse is roaring in my ears. He is alive. He is actually winning.
I shift my eyes to Camera Four.
The feed is labeled Interior Corridor . It points down the hallway that connects the mudroom to the kitchen. The same hallway that leads to the basement door.
A man is standing in the hallway.
The air leaves my lungs in a violent rush.
He must have slipped inside while Callum was flanking the team in the woods.
He is wearing the same heavy tactical gear as the others, the dual lenses of his night-vision goggles glowing faintly in the dark.
He is holding a suppressed submachine gun, and he is walking slowly, methodically, toward the camera.
Toward me.
I watch the screen, my entire body locking up.
He passes the kitchen. He doesn't bother looking at the shattered living room. He is following a specific path. He knows where the server room is.
He stops directly beneath the camera. He is standing right outside the heavy steel door at the top of the stairs.
I look away from the monitor and stare at the wooden ceiling above my head.
I can hear the floorboards creak under his heavy boots. The sound is no longer digital; it is physical, real, and separated from me by a few inches of wood and a steel door.
If the door opens, and it is not me, you point this at the center of the doorway and you pull the trigger.
I grab the Sig Sauer from the desk.
The metal is heavy, awkward in my grip. I push the chair back, the plastic wheels scraping loudly against the concrete. I don't care about the noise anymore. He already knows I am down here.
I step away from the desk, moving toward the bottom of the wooden stairs.
Above me, the handle of the steel door rattles.