What is that? Some kind of piece of shit beater car?
I scoff. Of course it is. Whoever did this probably stole it.
The driver's door opens.
A man gets out.
Big guy. Six feet, maybe more. Broad shoulders, lean build—moves like someone who knows how to handle himself in a fight. Wearing all black. Jeans, long-sleeve shirt, boots, and a ski mask pulled down over his face.
He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't scope the perimeter or check for cameras. Just walks straight toward my front door like he's been here before and knows exactly where he's going.
He punches in the code to my house.
The specific, exact, private-as-fuck code that only four people on the planet know.
Me.
Dom.
Ricky.
And Jino.
He, or someone on his team, blacked out my defenses. All of them except one piece of shit analog trail cam.
Which is exhibiting it's lack of well-thought-out function and purpose, because the footage cuts off after thirty seconds of no movement.
I click to the next timestamp.
8:01 PM.
The video loads. Same grainy green-white infrared. The front door opens and the man exits—no shirt now, ski mask still in place, one arm wrapped around Emmaleen.
His hand covers her mouth.
Four minutes.
He was inside my house for four fucking minutes.
Professional hacker, military-grade breach, systematic shutdown of every failsafe I've built—and he gets in and out in the time it takes to order coffee.
He knew the layout. Knew where to find her. Got her out of the dungeon?—
No.
Wait.
She wasn'tinthe dungeon.
The book on the floor. The key by the baseboard. The library.
She broke my rules. Used the key, wandered into restricted territory, grabbedThe Little Princelike she was browsing a fucking Barnes & Noble instead of staying where I told her to stay, where she'd besafe?—
Why, Emmaleen? Why did you break the rules today of all days?
On screen, the man drags her toward the Buick. She's not fighting. Not screaming. Just… compliant.
Like she's been trained to be.
