Secrets in the Documents.The dim glow of a flickering desk lamp cast long shadows over the table. Silas spread the stolen documents across the surface, his fingers ghosting over the pages, scanning the words as though they might catch fire under his touch. Eleanor leaned closer, her breath steady despite the tension coiling between them.A name stood out, circled in red ink—Marshall & Co."That’s a shell company," Eleanor murmured, her brows knitting together. "I’ve seen it before."Silas flipped another page, revealing a ledger detailing financial transactions. His stomach coiled. Money, large sums, funneled into offshore accounts, each transaction tied to an alias. But one alias repeated: H. Marshall."Hartwell’s laundering money through them," Silas muttered. His voice was tight, laced with revelation. "And it’s not just him. These accounts…." he tapped a list of names, men of power and influence, senators, corporate moguls, judges. "This is a network, Eleanor. A syndicate."Elean

The Estate Infiltration.The night draped itself over Hartwell’s estate like a thick velvet shroud, swallowing the trio in its obsidian embrace. The air carried the scent of damp earth and the faint tang of salt from a nearby body of water. The mansion loomed ahead, an architectural beast of stone and steel, its windows dark except for a few flickering lights shadows of movement behind thick curtains.Silas crouched behind a low hedge, eyes locked on the guards patrolling the perimeter. “We move now,” he whispered, his voice as sharp as the knife strapped to his thigh.With his angular face barely illuminated by the glow, Wyatt scanned the blueprint on his iPad. "There's a blind spot near the eastern fence. Two-minute window before the next patrol," he said.Eleanor adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of it grounding her. Every muscle in her body was coiled tight, ready. “Let’s go.”They moved like whispers through the grass, their footsteps ghosts against the manicured lawn. Th

A Dangerous Defector.The abandoned train yard stretched before them like a graveyard of rusted steel, the moon casting skeletal shadows through the gaps in the crumbling warehouse. The air smelled of rain-soaked iron and old oil, the scent thick with decay. Silas adjusted the strap of his shoulder holster beneath his jacket, his gaze scanning the dark expanse. Eleanor, standing beside him, kept her hands inside her coat pockets, fingers wrapped around the cold metal of her concealed knife.Wyatt stood a few paces ahead, his stance rigid. “He said midnight,” he muttered. “He’s late.”A crunch of gravel.Silas’s hand went to his gun, Eleanor’s breath caught, and Wyatt’s head snapped toward the sound. A figure emerged from the shadows, his silhouette jagged in the dim light.Victor Tremayne.He was lean, almost gaunt, his face a map of sharp angles and deep-set exhaustion. His dark eyes, shadowed by sleepless nights, flickered with wary calculation. A long trench coat hung from his shou

Bullet in the Shadows.The deafening crack of a rifle split through the station’s thick air. The sound ricocheted off steel beams, sending a pulse of panic through the crowd. The bullet struck a column inches from Eleanor’s head, the impact spewing dust and stone fragments into her face.“Down!” Silas grabbed her by the arm, yanking her sideways.The second shot came before she could blink. It whizzed past, slicing through the shoulder of a man behind her. The stranger collapsed with a strangled cry, his blood splattering onto Eleanor’s coat.Silas shoved her behind an overturned luggage cart, shielding her with his own body. “Stay down,” he ordered, his breath ragged. His dark eyes darted across the concourse, scanning the upper floors. “Sniper’s got a high vantage. Likely the west balcony.”Eleanor’s heart slammed against her ribs. The station had erupted into chaos, passengers screamed, diving for cover, while others ran, trampling over abandoned suitcases. A woman clutched her chi

The Road to New York.The dawn bled through the grimy windows of the hideout, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. A duffel bag lay open on the bed, half-packed with weapons, documents, and whatever cash they had left. Silas zipped his leather jacket, his face carved with exhaustion but his eyes sharp with resolve.With her arms folded, Eleanor stood close to the window, her silhouette silhouetted against the gloomy light. With a firm voice, she stated, "We depart in an hour." Silas exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “New York’s a different battlefield. Hartwell has power there…..real power.”“I know.” Eleanor turned, her expression unreadable. “But we can’t afford to wait.”Margaret paced the length of the room, arms folded. “This is suicide,” she muttered. “Hartwell isn’t just some local kingpin. His reach extends beyond the city. You’re walking into a hornet’s nest.”Eleanor glanced at her. "So we had better be ready to get stung."Silas zipped the bag shut. “We’re no