Patric chose not to teleport directly into the workroom. Instead, he materialized in the adjacent reading room—a tactical move born of caution. He didn’t know the situation on the other side of the wall; appearing in the middle of a crossfire would be a fatal mistake. He was right to be careful. The first sound that greeted him wasn’t the silence of the library, but the sharp, rhythmic crack of gunshots.
“One shooter in the workroom! Wearing a maid’s uniform! We need backup!” a security guard screamed from the hallway. Heavy boots thundered past Patric’s door.
Patric pulled on a full-face tactical mask, his movements ghost-like. He cracked the door just enough to see two guards dash past. According to Adams’ intelligence, there were six guards on duty tonight and four servants. The rest were at the party.
His best play was to let the two sides tear each other apart until the room was silent. If even a single guard remained standing, the workroom’s motion sensors would be manually reset, and the mission would scrub. He stroked the snout of the Gray Hound at his side, leaned back against the wall, listening to the rhythm of the gunfire. He would wait for the last man to fall.
A single shot rang out, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. A guard had rushed into the room and paid the price. The remaining men hesitated outside, afraid to lay down suppressive fire for fear of damaging Franco’s expensive equipment. Minutes stretched. More shots. Patric counted five guards outside; one was cursing, likely hit in the leg.
Then came the final push. Two guards stormed the room. Two shots followed. One guard went down, but a heavy boom—the sound of someone collapsing against a desk—signaled the end of the intruder.
“I got her. She’s wounded,” a guard shouted. But victory was short-lived. A final muzzle flash from the shadows of the workroom silenced him. Three more shots from the doorway ended the struggle. Total silence followed.
One remaining guard stepped into the room, his voice echoing. “She’s dead. I’m restarting the sensors now.”
Now or never. Patric surged out of the reading room. He dropped the guard at the door with a single, silenced shot, then turned his aim to the wounded man on the floor. Inside the workroom, the last standing guard reacted with surprising speed, sending a bullet toward Patric’s head. Patric dove behind the doorframe as plaster exploded near his ear.
Two glowing red eyes emerged from the darkness of the hallway. The Gray Hound didn’t wait for a command.
“What the hell is that?!” the guard screamed. He emptied his clip into the beast, but the bullets passed through the hellhound’s spectral form as if it were smoke.
As the guard scrambled to reload, Patric stepped into the light and delivered a mercy shot. Being torn apart by a hellhound was a death too gruesome for even a hired gun.
The room was a shambles. At the far end, slumped against a mahogany desk, was the intruder. On the desk sat an open laptop. Like Patric, she had brought a flash drive, but she had been manually scouring the hard drive for photos—a slow, amateur mistake. A professional killer, perhaps, but a terrible spy.
Patric plugged Trevor’s drive into the laptop and executed the script. The program began an automated sweep, identifying facial signatures and uploading them to Trevor’s private server while simultaneously copying them to the drive. He glanced at the drawers, briefly considering looking for tea to pass the time, but the script was too efficient. In less than a minute, the terminal ceased its frantic scrolling. The final lines of code executed, leaving a solitary, glowing string of text on the dark screen: Process terminated. Mission complete.
He skimmed a few images, his jaw tightening as the horror of the contents sank in. It was a sickening archive of evidence—the kind of absolute proof that would drag Franco, Victoria, and their accomplices into a prison cell for the rest of their lives.
Patric unplugged the drive, murmured to the hellhound, “Let’s go.” They vanished into a swirl of dark mist.
The party inside the Dressrious Salon moved on, oblivious and elegant. The earlier disturbance with the bodyguard had already faded into a whispered rumor, quickly drowned out by the upbeat rhythm of live jazz. On the floor, guests swayed and swirled, immersing in the gilded moment.
After a few turns on the dance floor, Trevor and Alisa spotted Fiona returning to the table where Mateo sat waiting. Out of concern, they wove through the moving couples toward them.
“Is everything okay?” Alisa asked, her voice laced with concern as they approached.
“I don’t know,” Fiona said, her voice trembling. “My mother was on her way to the airport, but Father sent all his men to intercept her. He won’t tell me why. He just said he has… questions for her.”
“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” Mateo said, offering a comforting smile, rubbing her shoulder. “My mom and dad argue too, it usually blows over by morning.”
“Exactly. There’s no need to overthink it,” Alisa added. Her voice trailed off slightly as she glanced at Trevor. She hesitated, the weight of the truth pressing against her lips, unsure if she should shatter Fiona’s world right then and there. “Whatever is going on… I’m sure they can handle it.”
Fiona sighed, taking a distracted sip of the cider Mateo had brought her.
Sensing the heavy atmosphere, Alisa reached out and took Fiona’s hand. “Let’s dance. It’ll help clear your head.”
Fiona gave a weak smile and allowed Alisa to lead her toward the music. Trevor sat down across from Mateo, the silence between them growing heavy.
“Girls,” Trevor said, nodding toward the dance floor.
“Yep,” Mateo replied, staring into his drink.
“So… you play polo?” Trevor asked, grasping for a topic. “That’s pretty impressive.”
“You know much about it?”
“Not really. Just that it involves a lot of horses and a lot of money.”
Mateo let out a small laugh. “It’s expensive, sure. But it’s more than that. It’s the only sport that requires perfect coordination with an animal while managing a team strategy…” For the next few minutes, Mateo spoke passionately about the intricacies of polo. He even went into detail about his team’s dynamics and the grueling intensity of their winter training sessions.
“We have a match in Wellington next month,” Mateo offered. “I can get you tickets if you’re in the area.”
“I might take you up on that,” Trevor said. “I was thinking of heading south to escape the New Athens winter anyway.”
“I’m leaving Tuesday,” Mateo said. “I’m just glad to get out of this city. This week was supposed to be our honeymoon, but the shooting ruined everything.”
“Truly unfortunate,” Trevor said, offering a sympathetic smile. Internally, he felt a weight in his chest. He looked at the happy, wealthy young man and wondered what would happen to them once he pulled the rug out from under their family.
Spion approached, giving Trevor a subtle nod.
“Excuse me, I’m going to grab some dessert,” Trevor told Mateo.
He met Spion in a quiet alcove. “Patric made it,” Spion whispered.
Lady News and Report Man joined them, forming a tight circle away from prying eyes. Trevor pulled out his phone and accessed his secure server. New Files: 583.
“Great. Once I’m back home, I’ll send a copy to the Senator and Sarah,” Trevor said. He didn’t tap any of the photos to check the details; it wasn’t the right time.
“What about Victoria?” Report Man asked.
“Franco’s hunting her now,” Trevor said. “That’s out of our hands.”
“Patric said that the guards and the intruder are all dead,” Lady News whispered. “Let’s hope nobody finds a trace of us.”
“Franco is in a meeting with the sirens and his business partners right now; it may take a while for him to find out,” Spion said with a satisfied smirk. “Now we can enjoy the party.”
“Fabulous. It’s finally time for some relaxation,” Lady News said with a playful glint in her eyes. She extended a gloved hand toward Spion. “Shall we dance?”
“My pleasure,” Spion replied, taking her hand with effortless charm as he led her toward the dance floor.
“Well, I believe I shall claim a dance with Madam Rousseau,” Report Man added, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision. “We have an unfinished debate regarding next year’s silhouettes to settle, and there is no better place for a duel of wits than the dance floor.” He turned and vanished into the sea of silk and tuxedos, humming a light melody.
Finding that Alisa and Fiona had disappeared into the crowd too, Trevor drifted toward the dessert table. It was laden with avant-garde seafood treats. He picked up a savory caviar mousse cake, scooped a small spoonful, letting the salty richness melt slowly on his tongue as he scanned the room.
Then, the air changed. A scent of sea salt and night-blooming jasmine drifted past him. A girl in a pink and purple gradient dress walked by, her movement as fluid as the ocean.
It was her. The mystery girl from the Halloween party.
“Hi, I’m Trevor,” he said, stepping into her path with a hopeful smile. “We actually danced together right here, back at the Halloween party. I was the one in the silver robot suit, the Murder-Bot. Do you remember?” He held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs as he waited for a spark of recognition in her eyes.