Chapter 3 - Blood in the Suburbs
The tree-lined suburban street in Marietta looked peaceful under the pale glow of the streetlights, but my tactical instincts screamed that something was profoundly wrong. The Miller residence sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, its front porch light flickering in the autumn wind. No cars sat in the driveway, but the upstairs bedroom window was cracked open—a dead giveaway that someone had forced entry.
I signaled for Thomas to cut the headlights fifty yards short of the house. We rolled silently to the curb, stepping out into the cool night air like ghosts.
"You take the perimeter," I whispered, drawing my sidearm. "If anyone tries to exfiltrate through the back, do not hesitate."
"Be careful, Daniel," Thomas muttered, slipping toward the shadows of the garage. "This has all the fingerprints of a Blackwatch extraction team."
I crept up the front steps, hugging the brick exterior wall. The front door was unlocked, pushed open just a fraction of an inch. I eased it open with the barrel of my gun, sliding into the dark foyer. The house smelled of cordite and copper—the unmistakable scent of freshly spilled blood.
Moving through the living room like a predator, I cleared each corner with surgical precision. Family portraits hung on the walls—smiling memories of a life stolen by corruption. As I reached the top of the stairs, a soft, ragged gasp echoed from the master bedroom.
I kicked the door open, sweeping the room in a fraction of a second.
Clara Miller, the sixty-eight-year-old widow of Admiral Miller, was tied to a wooden chair in the center of the bedroom, a gag bound tightly across her mouth. Standing over her was a man in an unmarked tactical rig, a suppressed pistol pressed against her temple.
The operative froze, his eyes widening in the dim light as he recognized me. "Carter... how the hell are you still—"
He didn't get to finish the sentence. I closed the distance in two explosive strides, slamming the heel of my palm against his wrist. The suppressed pistol discharged into the hardwood floor with a muffled thud, and I twisted his arm behind his back, driving him face-first into the mattress.
I pressed my boot into the back of his neck, locking him down, while my other hand ripped the gag off Clara’s mouth.
"Daniel! Oh, thank God," she sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. "They said... they said if I didn't give them the ledger James left behind, you'd be dead by morning."
"It's okay, Clara. You're safe," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the operative pinned beneath my boot. I leaned down, pressing the muzzle of my gun against the back of his flak jacket. "Talk. Who sent you? Who else is on the kill list?"
The operative let out a bitter, blood-flecked laugh, spitting onto the carpet. "You're too late, Carter. The ledger was just a decoy. The real target is already on a flight to Geneva with the primary cryptographic keys."
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Before I could demand a name, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the hallway downstairs. It wasn't Thomas’s footsteps. It was the sound of a live grenade spoon releasing its tension.
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