The specialist left quickly. While we waited, Reid cleaned his tools, wiping blood from metal under the fluorescent light.
Fifteen minutes later, the specialist returned with a laptop in hand. Rain had darkened his shoulders. "Found it exactly where she said, sir. Password protected. Military-grade encryption."
"The password?" I asked Hardin.
She hesitated, weighing her final bargaining chip. "VanGelder1994. My mother's maiden name and the year I published my first paper."
I passed the laptop to Reid. He began accessing files. His face remained professionally blank, but satisfaction showed in the slight relaxation around his eyes.
"Extensive documentation, sir," he reported. "Technical specifications, contact lists, even Shaw's private server access credentials. She wasn't exaggerating. This is a complete intelligence package."
"Good." I turned back to Hardin. "You've been surprisingly helpful, Doctor."
Hope flickered in her eyes. The most dangerous emotion. "Then you'll let me go?"
"No." I kept my voice gentle. "But I will make it quick."
The hope died. Her pupils dilated fully. "Please, I can still be useful. I know Shaw's thinking, his methods. I could help you track him."
"You've already given me everything I need." I drew the pistol from my shoulder holster and fired.
The gunshot echoed. Her body slumped in the restraints.
For a moment, silence. Then Reid spoke. "Clean-up team is en route, sir. They'll handle disposal and evidence removal."
I holstered my weapon and stared at Hardin's body. The familiar weight of the pistol triggered an unexpected wave of fatigue.
How many similar executions had I performed? Fifty? A hundred? I'd stopped counting years ago, each death becoming another business expense. Another entry in the ledger.
But this one sat differently. Not because Hardin mattered more than the others. Not because her death wasn't warranted. But because, for the first time, I questioned how many more lay ahead. When would the ledger balance? Was there a number that signaled it was time to stop? To rest? A moment when Jackson Wheeler could finally stop proving his worth through Algerone Caisse-Etremont's accomplishments?
My hand trembled slightly as I tucked the weapon away. Just age. Just another night's toll on a body that had survived beyond reasonable expectations. My knee ached, surgical screws and pins shifting with each movement. The mill explosion had left me daily reminders of mortality. Physical limitations I could neither out think nor outmaneuver.
The body betrays eventually, even for men who've remade themselves.
"Have the team sweep the facility," I ordered Reid, pushing the thoughts aside. The sharpness in my voice made his spine straighten. "I want every scrap of data, every piece of equipment that might be useful. Leave nothing for Shaw's people to recover."
"Yes, sir." Reid motioned to the security specialists, who moved to carry out orders. They dispersed throughout the facility, seeking anything of value.
I turned my attention to Hardin's laptop. The files confirmed what we suspected: Macau in two weeks. Shaw's buyers, security details, floor plans. Everything we needed.
"The helicopter is waiting, sir," Reid reported, blood spatter still visible on his tactical gear. Rain drummed against the facility roof. "We can be at the airport in thirty minutes. Jet's fueled and ready."
"Good." My fingers tightened around my phone. Maxime would be in the boardroom by now, facing down Patterson and the rest of the vultures circling our bleeding stock price. The thought of him dismantling them one by one, of that cold predator emerging from beneath the perfectly tailored suit, made something tighten in my chest. He'd promised to destroy anyone who tried to take what was mine. I believed him. "I need to make a call first."
The armored SUV waitedin the shadow of abandoned warehouses, rain drumming against bulletproof glass. I settled into the leather interior, and my body registered the night's toll all at once. Blood stained my tactical gear, Hardin's mingled with my own, and exhaustion gnawed at my edges.
"Reid will oversee the cleanup personally, sir," my driver informed me, his expression blank in the rearview mirror. "He estimates no traces will remain within the hour."
I nodded. "Take us to the extraction point."
The vehicle pulled away from the facility where Hardin's body cooled on laboratory tiles. I loosened the tactical vest crushing my ribs. Vancouver's nightscape blurred outside rain-streaked windows, neon reflecting across wet pavement. For the first time since the interrogation began, my thoughts returned to Cincinnati, to the penthouse, to Maxime.
I missed him. Not just his operational competence or his tactical mind, but his physical presence. The scent of his skin. The weight of him against me. Three decades of professionaldistance had never prepared me for the hollow ache of wanting someone near.
Once we reached the secluded airstrip where our jet waited, I pulled out my secure phone. It would be early morning in Cincinnati by now, and Maxime answered on the first ring.
"Algerone." My name in his mouth sounded like a prayer, rough with exhaustion and something deeper than the crisp professional greeting he'd used for thirty-two years. "Are you safe?"
