Chapter 9 - Voices in the Dark
A sharp metallic click echoed from the shadows near the cold-storage vault—the unmistakable sound of a bolt-action rifle being chambered.
"Don't move," a voice commanded from the darkness. It wasn't Graham's voice. It was raspy, weathered, and carried a familiar cadence that sent a sudden, paralyzing shock straight through Declan's chest.
Declan froze. His breath caught in his throat. For four years, he had imagined hearing that voice in every empty room, in every quiet corridor of the estate.
"Aaron?" Declan whispered, his voice cracking slightly against his will.
The figure stepped slowly out from the shadow of the cold-storage door, silhouetted against the faint blue glow of the blinking laptop screen across the room. He wore a heavy canvas jacket, his dark hair longer than it had been four years ago, a deep scar cutting across his left cheekbone. But there was no mistaking the sharp, familiar lines of his face.
Aaron Shaw was alive.
"You took your sweet time, big brother," Aaron said, lowering the barrel of his rifle a fraction of an inch, though his eyes remained fixed and cautious, scanning the dark corners of the warehouse for any sign of backup. "I was beginning to think Graham's bedtime stories had finally convinced you I was just a ghost."
Marcus limped out from the shadows, lowering his weapon with a mixture of disbelief and relief. "I told you he was out there."
"You shouldn't have come here, Declan," Aaron said, stepping closer into the faint light. "Graham didn't just track your subterranean office tonight. He's been using your security network to track every move you've made since the moment that little girl walked into your ballroom."
"She's Evan Carter's daughter," Declan said, his voice hard as steel as he closed the distance between them. "And your bracelet gave her away. Why did you leave her family unprotected, Aaron? Why let them believe you were dead?"
Aaron let out a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he pointed toward the ruined digital keypad on the cold-storage vault behind him. "Because the moment I walked out of that burning warehouse four years ago, I realized something terrifying: the man running our family wasn't the man sitting in the executive chair. It was the man standing right behind him holding the pen."
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Before Aaron could finish his sentence, the heavy steel exterior doors of the warehouse blew inward with a deafening explosion of splintered wood and flying iron.
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