Roger Grand
The city glittered below, all neon and steel, a thousand lives moving blindly through the streets. They thought themselves free—untouchable. They didn’t know how deep Hydra’s claws already sank.
Roger Grand stood at the balcony, hands braced on the iron rail, watching the veins of traffic flow like blood through the dark. His men waited behind him in the suite, silent, respectful of the storm they knew better than to interrupt.
“They’ve reached the city,” one finally said. “Safehouse on the east side. Our contacts confirm.”
Roger’s smile spread slow and sharp. “Good.”
He turned from the window, stepping toward the map sprawled across the table. Red pins marked Hydra’s choke points—the markets, the safehouses, the ports. Blue pins marked the Team’s suspected entry routes. Every path converged like threads in a spider’s web.
“Beckett thinks he has her safe.” Roger’s voice was silk and venom, a blade hidden in velvet. “He’ll gather his brothers. They’ll plan, strategize, cling to their loyalty like it’s armor. But loyalty is the crack in their steel.”
He tapped one pin—an informant’s location near the western market. “Our people are already in place. Merchants. Drivers. Street rats. Every coin flipped in this city carries our mark. When Beckett moves, we’ll know.”
A younger lieutenant shifted. “And Elara? What if she doesn’t surface?”
Roger’s eyes burned cold. “She’ll surface. She’s not hiding behind Beckett. She’s clinging. And clinging makes people reckless. She’ll come into the open to protect him, if nothing else.”
He leaned back, folding his hands behind his back as calm settled over him like a second skin.
“Prepare the nets. I want her alive. Beckett?” His smile turned cruel. “Bring him to me breathing. I want the pleasure of teaching him what it means to steal from me.”
The men nodded, the weight of his command thick in the air. Roger turned back to the balcony, the hum of the city pulsing in his ears.
The city didn’t know it yet. But by dawn, it would belong to Hydra.
53
Beckett
Night pressed heavy against the safehouse windows, the hum of the city bleeding through the cracked glass. Sirens in the distance. The occasional rumble of a truck. But beneath it all, I could feel Hydra. Like static in the air, like the weight of a scope aimed at the back of my skull.
The Golden Team worked the kitchen table like a war council. Maps spread wide. Cyclone’s laptop glowed pale blue, streams of surveillance footage rolling like a second heartbeat. River argued over choke points with Oliver while Gage cleaned his weapon with a grin too sharp for the tension in the room.
I stayed silent, standing at the edge of it all, eyes on the window, on the shadows moving just beyond the glass.
Because no matter what plans we drew, Hydra already had theirs. And they’d be waiting.
Behind me, a soft shuffle broke through the noise. Elara. She stood with her arms crossed, shoulders stiff, gaze fixed on the table like she wanted to burn the map to ash.
“They’re closing in,” I said, my voice low. The Team quieted, listening. “Grand won’t sit back and lick his wounds. He’ll move faster. Harder. We’re already on borrowed time.”
River snorted. “What else is new?”
I ignored him and kept my eyes on her. “We need to move tonight.”
Oliver leaned back in his chair, brows raised. “And run straight into their net? Sounds like suicide, brother.”
“Not if we choose the ground,” I said. “They want us bottled up, cornered. Fine. Then we give them a corner they don’t walk away from.”
Elara finally spoke, her voice cutting sharp into the room. “You don’t understand. Hydra owns this city. The markets, the docks, even the alleys you think are safe. If we move, they’ll know.”
I stepped closer, closing the space between us. Her fire met mine, unflinching. “Then let them know,” I said. “Let them come. But this time, we’re ready.”
Her eyes softened just for a second, and that second gutted me. Because I could see what she was thinking—that I was walking into the fire for her. And she wasn’t wrong.
“Beckett—”
