“I’m still trying to find out,” he answers immediately. “The intruders knew exactly what they were looking for. Nothing is left to chance—they didn’t just break in; they targeted inventory, bypassed cameras, and avoided any unnecessary noise that would alert the guards. Whoever planned this…they understand our protocols better. Just like our guards.”
He shifts his gaze to the guards, hands clasped behind his back. “We’ll need to reinforce the perimeter immediately. I suggest doubling patrols on the east and west entrances,installing temporary motion sensors along blind spots, and auditing the access logs from the past month. Any anomalies, no matter how small, must be reported directly to you first. Nothing is too minor.”
I watch him carefully as he continues, his tone precise, almost rehearsed. “We should also conduct random checks on all minor and major guards. Their schedules, their recent communications. If someone has been circumventing procedure, this will reveal it. It’s harsh, but necessary. These types of raids rarely happen without internal knowledge. I would recommend assigning a dedicated team to shadow key personnel discreetly. Again, all findings to be reported to you immediately.”
His voice carries concern, but I notice the careful way he redirects suspicion toward the guards—almost too effortlessly, too cleanly. Every word feels rehearsed. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
We take a walk around the raised warehouse, the morning sun cutting harshly across the shattered windows and overturned crates. I take in the loss—damaged inventory, ruined shipments, broken machinery—but something about this feels personal. Like a message. My radar and intuition are on overdrive.
We spend the next few hours logging everything meticulously. By noon, Timofey arrives. He’s been briefed and is already carrying that air of controlled lethality he always does.
“Mike,” he says, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “I heard the news. I brought extra manpower. Thought you might need backup.”
For the first time since arriving, I laugh and pull him to the side, away from the guards and workers.
“What’s got you laughing?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
I shake my head. “Nothing’s funny. I’m glad you’re here. I just…need you to stay here and monitor things while I return to the house.”
His smirk turns into a disbelieving grin. “You want me to stay here while you go play husband with Ellie?”
I step closer and smack him lightly on the chest. “I’m not going to ‘play husband.’ I want to check the surveillance logs. Sergei is in charge of them, and I haven’t done a full check in a while. Something feels off.”
He folds his arms, frowning. “Why? You suspect Sergei?”
I nod. “Yes. And I have reason to.”
“What reason?”
“Ellie said something that I can’t ignore. She’s smart—one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. If she senses something, I need to trust her instincts.”
Timofey’s brow furrows deeper. “Since when do you suspect him? This isn’t like you, Mike. Sergei’s been with us for years.”
I tell him everything Ellie has observed—the glances, the movements, the subtle interactions at the party. I include every detail, careful not to embellish but to highlight patterns.
Timofey exhales slowly and studies me. “And you trust Ellie’s judgment?”
“With my life,” I reply without hesitation.
He shakes his head slightly and sighs. “Okay…I get it. If you think something’s up, then I’ll hold the fort here. But don’t think I won’t come after you if I hear you’re doing domestic duties instead.”
“Shut up,” I laugh. “Just keep an eye on everything and report anything unusual immediately.”
He nods, half-amused, half-serious, and I turn toward the car that will take me back to the house. Every instinct in mescreams that this isn’t just a warehouse raid. Someone is sending a message—and I intend to find out exactly who.
When I arrive at the house, I head straight to our suite, but Ellie isn’t there. The staff member I pass tells me she’s in the library. I don’t bother going to check. Not yet.
Instead, I make a beeline for the security room. The room hums with monitors, each screen showing a different section of the estate. I ignore them all for now, pulling up the surveillance logs from the warehouse.
I review them personally, and something catches my eye immediately. A small discrepancy. Almost imperceptible unless you’re looking for it. I am.
Thirty minutes before the raid, a security override had been initiated remotely. The credentials used belonged to someone within my immediate command structure.
I pause, letting the information sink in. Someone I trusted had access. Someone close enough to know the inner workings of our operation. My jaw tightens.
I start tracing the digital footprints, every movement, every logon, every access point. The override was clean, almost elegant, designed to leave as little trace as possible. But the timing, the method, it reeks of familiarity, of intimate knowledge of our routines.
“Who are you?” I mutter under my breath, leaning closer to the monitors. I can feel the heat rising in my chest, not anger at the intruders, not yet, but at the betrayal simmering beneath the surface.
