Chapter 5 - The Trap Springs
Elara’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at the single boot print in the mud, fresh and sharp despite the steady drizzle.
“They’re already here,” she whispered, her hand instinctively grabbing the sleeve of Leandro’s jacket.
Leandro didn't answer immediately. He crouched low, inspecting the depth of the print and the unique waffle pattern of the rubber sole. A dark, dangerous shadow passed over his face.
“Not Marcus’s men,” Leandro said softly, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Marcus’s security detail wears standard tactical-issue footwear. That tread belongs to an independent contractor. Someone local. Or someone hired long before my plane went down.”
Elara’s mind raced, a cold realization dawning on her. “An independent contractor? In Blackwater? Nobody lives out this way for miles.”
“Which means,” Leandro said, slowly drawing his weapon, “someone inside my organization knew I had a fallback cache here long before tonight. The betrayal wasn't just Marcus. It goes deeper.”
Before Elara could process the terrifying implications of his words, the front door of the caretaker’s shack creaked open an inch. A sliver of warm, artificial light spilled out onto the rotting porch, cutting through the darkness.
Leandro gestured sharply for Elara to stay back against the wall of the shack. He moved with silent, lethal precision up the remaining steps, pressing his back against the exterior wall beside the door.
For a terrifying heartbeat, the woods fell completely silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then, a voice drifted out from inside the shack—smooth, calm, and utterly unexpected.
“I was beginning to think you didn't survive the swim, boss,” the voice called out.
Leandro stiffened. Every muscle in his body locked. He didn't hesitate; he pivoted around the doorframe, his gun raised and ready.
Elara craned her neck from around the corner, her eyes widening as she peered into the lit doorway.
Standing inside the dusty, abandoned room was a woman in a sleek, dry trench coat. She wasn't tied up, and she wasn't hiding. She was pouring herself a cup of coffee from a small portable burner, looking entirely at home. Her dark hair was neatly pinned back, and her expression was one of cool, detached amusement.
Leandro’s pistol didn't lower. If anything, his grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.
“Elena,” Leandro said, his voice dropping an octave into a low, lethal snarl. “You.”
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The woman took a slow sip of her coffee, her dark eyes shifting past Leandro to lock directly onto Elara standing in the shadows of the porch.
“Good evening,” Elena said, offering a polite, chillingly serene nod. “And you must be the local angel who pulled him out of the water. I’m afraid you’ve made a terrible mistake, my dear. He’s much more trouble than he's worth.”
