The confirmation settles in my chest like a cold stone. I knew, of course—had suspected from the beginning that Hale was behind the restaurant attack, behind the stalking, behind everything that put Elara in danger. Suspicion and proof are different animals, and proof changes the nature of the war I’m about to wage.
“How long have you been tracking her?”
“Since the wedding. Orders were to maintain distance, gather intelligence on movement patterns, security protocols. Today was the first time we got close enough for extraction.”
“Extraction to where?”
“Safe house in Queens. Private facility, soundproofed, off the books.”
I don’t ask what happens after extraction. We both know the answer to that question.
“Who else is involved?” I continue. “What other assets does Hale have in play?”
The man’s eyes flicker with something that might be surprise. Or confusion. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“About the woman. The one who’s been feeding him information from the beginning.”
My blood turns to ice. Information from the beginning means someone in Elara’s inner circle, someone she trusts, someone who’s been documenting her life and habits and vulnerabilities long before I ever started my own surveillance.
“Name,” I say, voice flat and deadly.
“Celeste something. French name. Works in fashion, knows all the right people, gets invited to all the right parties.” He coughs, spits blood. “She’s the one who identified the target in the first place. Been reporting back for months.”
The revelation hits like a physical blow. Celeste Armand. The woman who warned Elara about me after the fashion show scandal. The concerned friend who just happened to appear in that hallway with exactly the right information to point Elara in my direction.
Not a friend trying to help, but an enemy positioning herself as an ally while feeding intelligence to the very man hunting her target.
“How long?” I ask.
“Year, maybe longer. She was already in place when I got brought into this operation.”
A year. Celeste has been watching Elara, documenting her life, preparing her for harvest like livestock being fattened for slaughter. Every confidence shared, every vulnerability revealed,every moment of trust—all of it carefully collected and passed along to Marcus Hale’s operation.
“What’s the endgame?” I continue. “What does Hale want with her?”
The man’s breathing becomes more labored, life leaking out of him with each passing minute. He manages one more answer.
“Same thing he wants with all of them. Break her down, rebuild her as something useful. Then sell her to whoever’s paying the highest price.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s something almost like pity there. “She’s not the first. Won’t be the last. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you kill him first.”
The recording stops. I pocket the phone and stand, looking down at a man who’s just confirmed my worst fears while simultaneously handing me the intelligence I need to end this permanently.
“Dima,” I call.
“Yes?”
“Make sure the authorities find exactly what they need to find and nothing more.”
“The survivor?”
I look down at the broken man who just sealed Marcus Hale’s death warrant. He’s already unconscious, blood loss and trauma finally claiming him. In an hour, maybe two, he’ll be gone regardless of what medical attention he receives.
“Natural consequences,” I say.
