"Run through it again," Logan said from the front passenger seat, his voice tight with barely controlled rage.
Killingham sighed but obliged. "Trivium enforcers have the perimeter secured. The Marshalls are home: David, his parents, and his two younger sisters. We go in, subdue the family, and extract David for questioning."
"And if he resists?" Ryder asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
"We take him anyway," Killingham replied flatly. "But he needs to be alive for questioning." Ryder's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, but there was nothing of humour in it. Just cold, calculated intent that made my skin crawl. I knew that look. It was the same look when he knew he was going to be able to unleash his more violent, darker side. But this was different; this was personal. This was Cade.
"And the family?" I asked, forcing myself to focus on logistics rather than the growing knot of dread in my stomach.
"Detained for questioning, but they're not our primary targets," Killingham said. "Unless they're directly involved, they'll be released to Trivium custody afterward."
The car fell into silence again, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Mine kept circling back to Hannah Kensin, Archive House's Consort, and her confession. The memory of her tear-streaked face as she described how David had blackmailed and manipulated her made bile rise in my throat. How he'd forced her to sleep with men of his choosing, threatening to expose her earlier indiscretions if she refused. How he'd made her plant those threatening notes in Cade's bag, send fake texts to her grandparents. How he'd attacked Cade at Halloween, knife in hand. And Hannah had helped him, too terrified to refuse.
I couldn't decide which was worse: the thought that Cade had been targeted for months before her abduction, the realisation that we'd been so blind to the threat right in front of us, or, in some way, the traditions we lived by had indirectly caused all this to happen. If Hannah hadn’t been so afraid of First Offence Punishment, then she wouldn’t have been so compliant to David’s manipulations. We'd never thought to look at the other Houses, at the Regents themselves. The role of the Consort was sacred. All Regents knew this.
"We're here," Killingham announced, pulling into a side street and parking behind an unmarked black van. "The others are already in position." The others, meaning Bruce Turner and Sebastian Lynch, along with a team of Trivium enforcers. Harrison, Andrew, and Hannah remained in custody at Regents, ensuring none of them could warn David of our approach. A necessary precaution, though I doubted any of them would try. Hannah was too broken, Harrison too betrayed, and Andrew too afraid of Lynch after having his face slammed into the interrogation table.
We exited the vehicle silently, the cold London air biting at my exposed skin, even in the city, snow blanketed the ground. A man I didn't recognise approached us, dressed in nondescript black clothing, a comm unit visible in his ear.
"High Lord Killingham," he greeted with a curt nod. "The house is secure. We have visual confirmation of all targets. The Marshalls are in the main living room, watching television. The daughters are in their bedroom on the second floor. David Marshall is in his room, third floor, east side."
"Any signs he's aware of our presence?" Killingham asked.
"Negative, sir. All subjects appear relaxed and unaware." Killingham nodded, seemingly satisfied.
"Where's Turner?"
"Mr Turner and Mr Lynch are waiting at the south entrance. They suggested a pincer movement, your team takes the front, theirs takes the rear. Minimise the chance of escape." I exchanged glances with Logan. The precision of the operation was both reassuring and unsettling. This wasn't just a university matter anymore; this was Trivium business at its highest level. The Gavel's granddaughter had been taken, and the full force of the organisation's shadow resources had been mobilised in response.
"Let's move," Killingham ordered, and we fell into step behind him, approaching the imposing Victorian townhouse from around the corner. Bruce Turner and Sebastian Lynch were waiting in the shadows of a garden wall, accompanied by four men in tactical gear. Bruce's weathered face was a mask of cold determination, while Lynch looked almost bored, as if abducting Regents from their family homes was a routine Tuesday night for him. For all I knew, it might have been.
"Remember," Bruce said as we gathered for a final briefing, "I want him alive for questioning. After that, I don't care what happens to him." Ryder's eyes gleamed in the darkness.
"Understood."
Lynch divided us into teams with military efficiency.
"Killingham, Turner, and two of my men will take the front entrance and secure the parents. Logan, you're with them. Cole, Ryder, you're with me and the other two. We'll take the rear entrance and cut off any escape route. Our primary target is David Marshall." I nodded, my hand instinctively checking the weight of the gun tucked into my waistband. I rarely carried it, but tonight felt different. Tonight, I needed the reassurance of cold metal against my skin.
"On my mark," Lynch said into his comm unit. "Three, two, one... execute."
We moved like shadows through the back garden, Lynch leading the way with practiced ease. The rear door's security system was disabled within seconds, and we slipped inside without a sound. Distant voices from the front of the house told me the other team had made their entrance as well.
"Second floor clear," came a voice through Lynch's earpiece. "Daughters secured." Lynch gestured for us to follow him up the servants' staircase, bypassing the main living areas where I could hear raised voices, Mr Marshall's indignant protests, Mrs Marshall's frightened questions, Killingham's cold commands.
We reached the third-floor landing just as a door at the end of the corridor burst open. David Marshall emerged, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his face flushed with panic. He froze when he saw us, his eyes widening in recognition.
"Going somewhere?" Lynch asked mildly. David bolted, dropping the bag and sprinting toward the main staircase. Without thinking, I lunged after him, adrenaline surging through my veins. I caught him at the top of the stairs, tackling him to the plush carpet. He thrashed beneath me, his elbow connecting with my jaw in a burst of pain.
"Get the fuck off me!" he snarled, twisting to face me. "Do you know who I am? I'm a fucking Regent! I'm a Marshall! Youcan't do this!" I answered with my fist, driving it into his smug face with all the pent-up rage of the past five weeks. Blood spurted from his nose, spattering across the cream carpet. I hit him again, and again, a red haze descending over my vision. Each blow was for Cade, for the fear she must have felt when he cornered her at Halloween, knife in hand. For the terror of being abducted, beaten, and held captive for weeks. Strong hands pulled me back before I could do any real damage. Lynch's voice was calm in my ear.
"That's enough, Bowers. We need him conscious." David lay on the floor, blood streaming from his nose, his lip split and swelling. He glared up at us with undisguised hatred.
"You'll pay for this," he spat. "All of you. My father will-"
"Your father can't help you now," Lynch cut him off, hauling David to his feet. "Not where you're going."
The dining room of the Marshall home was opulent in that old-money way that spoke of generations of wealth and privilege. Heavy mahogany furniture, oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors, and a chandelier that probably cost more than most people's annual salary. David sat at the head of the table, his wrists zip-tied to the arms of the chair. His parents and sisters were being held in the living room, their protests audible through the closed door. Bruce Turner stood by the fireplace, his posture rigid, his face betraying nothing of the storm I knew must be raging inside him. Logan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression dark. Lynch had positioned himself directly behind David, a silent, menacing presence. And I sat across from David, watching as blood continued to trickle from his nose, staining his expensive shirt.
