Page 110

“Going somewhere, little flame?” His breath scorches my ear, rage trembling beneath each word. “You’re mine now. Belong to me. There’s no way you’re leaving my side. Remember our deal.” His words are an iron shackle, his voice thick with possession.
The phone crackles with static. “Sir—third floor breached… heavy casualties… they’ve got some kind of mechanical…” A scream cuts through the transmission. Then silence.
“Impossible.” His grip tightens, fingertips digging into my flesh, sharp and unrelenting. “An entire security team against six people?”
I try to twist away, using the distraction to my advantage. His fingers clamp down, a relentless vise that holds me in place. Another screen on his security panel goes dark. Then another.
“Fifth floor compromised!” The voice is breathless, panicked. “The machines—they’re not stopping… Oh God—” Gunfire drowns out the rest.
The eighth floor erupts in flames. The security feed shows mechanical hounds tearing through Wolfe’s men like paper—blood sprays across the camera lens, painting it red.
“They’re unstoppable,” someone gasps through the comm. “They’re not human… they’re—” The transmission dissolves into static and screaming.
Wolfe hurls the phone. It explodes against the wall in a shower of components. “This isn’t happening. This was perfect. My plan was perfect.”
He paces, his grip on me never loosening, dragging me with him. Panic bubbles in his movements, a jittery edge to his usually composed demeanor. His eyes dart around the room, searching for answers, for control that he no longer has. I feelit in his fingers, how they clench and unclench. His composure cracks.
Somewhere beneath my fear, a flicker of hope flares to life.
The tablet on his desk lights up. More reports flood in.
Twelfth floor—complete slaughter. The feed shows Guardian’s team moving like ghosts through smoke, each shot a kill. The Rufi move with precision, metal sinew, and relentless instinct.
Fourteenth floor—his elite squad torn apart by mechanical jaws and suppressive fire. Limbs and bodies, scattered like ragdolls.
Sixteenth floor—tactical team down in seconds.
His empire crumbles floor by floor, each loss carved into the deepening lines of his face. His lips draw back in a snarl, eyes narrowed with a fury that no longer hides the creeping fear.
He’s losing.
His perfect world is unraveling.
“Sir!” A guard bursts in, blood streaming from a head wound, his eyes wide with terror. “Johnson’s team is gone. Mason’s unit isn’t responding. We’re losing?—”
“Shut up!” Wolfe’s spittle flecks the air. His voice cracks, control slipping away. “Call in everyone. Every asset. Every weapon. Flood the stairwells with gas. Collapse the building if you have to.”
The guard’s radio spits static. A voice cuts through: “…they’re everywhere… targeting systems too fast… can’t stop…”
Twentieth floor goes dark.
“The helicopter,” Wolfe snaps, his face a mask of frustration, desperation simmering underneath. “Where is it?”
“Two minutes out, but, sir—the roof is exposed. We need?—”
An explosion rocks the building. The guard stumbles, catching himself against the wall.
“Get up there!” Wolfe roars, shoving the guard toward the door. “Secure our exit. Now.”
The guard runs, his boots leaving bloody prints on the pristine carpet, a symbol of Wolfe’s crumbling empire.
Wolfe drags me toward the roof access, his grip bruising, relentless. “Time to go, little flame. Our partnership isn’t finished.”
I twist in his grasp, my free hand swiping across his desk. My fingers close around something smooth and sharp—a letter opener. I tuck it against my side, the metal cool against my palm.
“Let me go.” I struggle against his grip.
His laugh splinters at the edges, madness seeping through. “After everything I’ve built? Everything I’ve sacrificed?” His fingers dig deeper, and I feel the pressure, bruising muscle and bone. “You’re mine. My weapon. My achievement. Mine!”