Novels by Investor

Penthouse, 2:17 A.M.Outside, Manhattan pulsed—wet streets, blinking signs, garbage trucks grinding somewhere far below. Inside, the hallway outside the main chamber felt like a mausoleum—quiet, cold, and waiting.Riven leaned against the wall, fidgeting with a lighter he didn’t know how to use. “You think he ever sleeps?”Dax didn’t look up from his phone. “The boss?”“No, Santa Claus.”Dax’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “If you gotta ask, you’re not ready to meet him.”Riven glanced at the thick steel double doors ahead. “Think he’ll like me?”Dax finally looked over. “No.”Riven paused. “What if I brought donuts?”Now Dax did smile—barely. “He doesn’t eat sugar. Says it fogs the kill switch.”“What’s the kill switch?”Dax tapped his chest. “The moment you hesitate.”Before Riven could reply, the doors clicked open on their own. No creak. Just smooth, mechanical surrender.“Guess that’s our cue,” Dax said, already walking.Inside the Domain.It felt more like a fortress than a hom

Paris, 5:26 a.m. – The Day of DepartureA gray hush hung over the apartment like a veil. Outside the window, the streets of Montparnasse were slick with rain, streetlamps still glowing, casting long yellow reflections across the pavement. Inside, the kitchen smelled of dark roast and quiet dread.Elizabeth stood barefoot by the stovetop, wrapped in one of Walker’s old cotton shirts—navy blue, frayed at the cuffs. She cradled a white mug in both hands, staring blankly at the French press slowly dripping behind her. The overhead light hummed, a faint contrast to the rhythmic patter of drizzle tapping the windowpanes.Walker entered the kitchen already dressed—charcoal jeans, black boots, and a fitted dark jacket zipped halfway. His duffel bag was slung over his right shoulder; a small black carry-on rolled behind him.“You’re early,” she said without turning.“I couldn’t sleep.”She reached for a second mug and poured. “You want one for the road?”He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”They sipped

A dusty taxi creaked to a halt by the side of an empty stretch of road. Jett stepped out first—broad shoulders wrapped in a black leather coat, hood drawn, his jaw clenched beneath a well-groomed beard. His mirrored sunglasses caught the glow of the streetlight, making him unreadable.Without a word, he circled to the other door, yanked it open, and dragged Anita out. She stumbled. Her face was veiled beneath a grey scarf, pulled tight. Her wrists were tense under his grip.The taxi disappeared into the fog. Another whizzed past, not even slowing when the driver caught a glimpse of the strange duo. Jett knew better than to head home. Surveillance was real. Patterns get you caught. And tonight, he wasn't just a hacker — he was judge, jury, maybe more.He hissed into Anita’s ear, the barrel of a pistol poking under her rib cage. “One sound, and I turn your insides into fog. Got it?”She nodded slowly, eyes wet, throat stiff.When a second cab finally pulled over, Jett shoved her inside

Paris, 2:47 a.m. The yellow nightlight near the crib cast a soft oval glow across the cream-colored walls. Outside, a light drizzle tapped the glass window rhythmically. But Walker lay wide awake, his back pressed flat against their queen-sized bed, arms folded behind his head. His eyes had been locked on the ceiling for hours. He didn’t move until he heard the soft snore from Elizabeth—steady, shallow. Then, slowly, carefully, he turned and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “Lizzy…” His voice barely escaped his lips. She groaned softly and stirred under the weight of the duvet, one leg peeking out. “Mm?” “I need to talk to you.” She rolled to face him, her long hair spilling onto the pillow. Her voice cracked with sleep. “Now?” “I can’t keep it in anymore.” Elizabeth sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with both hands. “Alright. Talk.” Walker inhaled sharply. “I think it’s time we move back to the US.” Elizabeth blinked at him, confused. “What?” “I’m serious.” Sh

The stripper hit the floor hard, stunned. Her mouth opened to scream—but Jett was faster. He clamped his hand over her lips and shoved her against the wall.“Where is she?” he growled. “The one with the yellow short hair. Lip piercing. Tribal mark. The one who sold me out.”She gasped, struggling under his grip. “I—I don’t know who you mean—”Wrong answer.Jett’s grip tightened around her throat. Her eyes bulged, bloodshot and watering. Her heels scraped against the floor. He leaned in, voice colder than steel.“When you get to hell, tell them I send my regards.”He released her. She collapsed, coughing, trying to breathe—but Jett wasn’t done.He drew the pistol, cold and black, and pressed the barrel to her lips. Slowly. Deliberately.“Talk. Or I blow your teeth through the back of your skull.”Her eyes filled with panic. She coughed, choked, shook her head. “I—I can’t…”He shoved the barrel deeper.“You will.”Finally, she broke.“Anita,” she wheezed. “Her name is Anita.”“Where?”“

Jett could finally rest now. Ramirez—the man he was assigned to watch like a hound on a scent—was locked up. Prison steel swallowed his old target. Jett wasn’t bitter anymore. Not exactly. If he hadn’t heard about how Ramirez’s wife and kid were kidnapped, he would’ve thought Ramirez had sold him out. But Jett knew betrayal. This wasn’t it.He had a new life now. One with the possibility of something like peace. Marriage? Maybe. But he knew how his world worked. People he crossed through his dark trade—hacking, digital theft, surveillance—if they couldn’t reach him, they'd go after the ones he loved. Just like Ramirez.That’s why he never married.That’s why tonight he carried a pistol in his back pocket and a black ski mask folded tight inside his duffel. It was 8 p.m. The club would be starting to heat up. If he waited too late, she’d be gone—dancing on another pole, working another poor bastard.She. The stripper who sold him out.Tonight, she dies.Jett covered the hole behind him