Chapter 40 — POV: Kieller
The jet's hum was background music to the storm already brewing in my mind. Lyra sat across from me, her posture composed, every line of her body exuding arrogance, power—but I knew better. The chaos in her veins hadn't left. It had only shifted.
I didn't speak. I didn't need to. My mind was already in motion.
I flicked my fingers over the encrypted tablet in my lap, connecting to my private intelligence network, slicing through layers of the Golden Mask's digital veil. Every feed, every camera, every drone I could tap into—I accessed. Every anomaly from the warehouse, every unusual pattern across the past 48 hours, everything had a source.
And I found it.
A live feed. Unregistered. Minimal compression. Raw.
I didn't show it to Lyra. She didn't need to see this. Not yet. Not until I decided how to use it.
The image stabilized: a dark warehouse room. Crates stacked like walls. A single chair in the corner. And there she was. Lyra—unconscious, bloodied, her jacket half-off, the dress riding high over her thigh. I clenched my jaw.
The men around her moved like predators. Hands that shouldn't touch, whispers of mockery, laughter carrying over the feed. They didn't know she was already a weapon of fury incarnate—even unconscious, even cornered, she was dangerous.
I didn't blink. I didn't move. My mind worked like a machine.
One hand on the tablet, I traced the metadata, triangulated the signal. The Golden Mask had left digital breadcrumbs. Smart, arrogant, but sloppy in his hubris.
Coordinates. A facility near the industrial docks. Large enough to host dozens, hidden behind layers of cover. I memorized it. The team I'd send would move tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight.
The feed shifted again—different angle, closer. My stomach tightened. Something had been recorded earlier. Something that no one should see.
But I didn't flinch. Not for her, not for me, not for anyone.
Lyra was alive. That was what mattered. Everything else was detail.
I paused the feed, locked it behind layers of encryption. I wouldn't show her yet. She wouldn't know. She had to return whole, fierce, unbroken. She couldn't carry this burden. Not now.
My mind raced through contingencies, backup plans, extraction points, decoys, surveillance, and counter-surveillance. Every scenario, every potential failure—calculated. Every moment, Lyra's safety hung in the balance. And I would not let her fall again.
A message pinged. Encrypted. From a masked number I didn't recognize.
"Check the feed. She's not alone."
Attached: a new video. The Golden Mask's signature smile lingered across the screen. My fists clenched around the tablet.
I didn't watch it yet. I didn't need to. One thing was certain: the game was bigger than I thought. He wasn't just testing her, not just testing me. He was playing multiple pieces at once.
And I'd burn the board before letting him move another.
I looked at her across the cabin, unaware, smug even, bloodied but unbowed. Arrogance like that was dangerous. And necessary.
She had survived hell. She would survive this.
But whoever thought they were untouchable, whoever thought they could threaten her—They hadn't counted on me.
The chessboard was set. The pieces were moving. And when the storm hit, the board would burn.