Chapter 17 - The fallen hunter
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his head. He merely pressed a button on his wrist communicator.
Three floors above the sniper, on the cold steel girders of the construction site, two shadows materialized behind the hitman. Before the assassin could pull the trigger on his high-powered rifle, a steel garrote wire whipped around his throat, wrenching him backward off his perch.
A sharp, muffled crack echoed in Roman's earpiece: *Target neutralized, boss. Sniper down. Rifle secured.*
On the courthouse steps, Clara never wavered. She saw the tiny red dot vanish from the stone steps near her feet, knowing Roman’s invisible ring of wolves had executed their work flawlessly. She turned her icy gaze back toward Agent Miller, whose face had turned the color of ash as his phone began buzzing uncontrollably in his pocket.
"Answer it, Agent," Clara said softly, her lips curving into a deadly, composed smile. "That will be the Inspector General informing you that your warrant is void, your Attorney General is in custody, and Julian Vance’s bank accounts across Zurich and the Cayman Islands have just been frozen."
Agent Miller fumbled with his phone, listened for five seconds, and slowly lowered his weapon. "Fall back," he ordered his men, his voice shaking. "All units, stand down."
The reporters surged forward, shouting questions, their cameras capturing Clara Bennett Raines standing victorious on the federal steps, holding her father's hand while Roman stood like an immovable titan behind them.
For a moment, it seemed the war was won.
Arthur wept openly, embracing his daughter as justice washed over the Bennett name. But Roman’s phone vibrated violently against his ribs. He pulled out the secure burner device.
A single video file was playing on the screen.
May you like
It was live surveillance footage from Roman’s private sanctuary manor on the northern cliffs—the very house they had left hours earlier. In the center of the grand hall, Roman’s trusted housekeeper and three senior bodyguards lay bound and gagged on the marble floor. Standing over them was a man with cold silver hair, dressed in an immaculate white suit, swirling a glass of vintage bourbon.
Julian Vance looked straight into the camera, smiled, and spoke without sound. On the table next to him rested a ticking military-grade detonator.
