Chapter 2 - The Double Game
Ethan didn’t draw his gun. He didn’t scream. He simply stepped out of the heavy shadows of the secret passage, his dark eyes locked on his younger cousin.
Tyler dropped his phone. The screen cracked against the stone floor, but the blue light still burned through the dark, displaying those nine chilling words: The gate was never the real way inside.
“Ethan… I can explain,” Tyler choked out, his shoulders shaking under his jacket. “I swear to God, Ethan, I didn't want any of this!”
“In the study,” Ethan said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “Now.”
I kept my hand resting on the grip of my concealed sidearm, stepping between Tyler and the tunnel exit. My heart was pounding against my ribs, but my mind was operating with ice-cold clarity. Every detail I had observed over the past six hours was falling into place like tumbler pins in a vault lock.
Ethan pushed open the heavy oak door leading into the private study. Once inside, I locked the door from the interior and drew the heavy velvet drapes across the bulletproof glass windows.
Ethan walked behind his father’s mahogany desk, resting both hands on the dark wood. He looked at Tyler not with rage, but with a profound, aching disappointment.
“Show her the photograph, Ethan,” I commanded softly, standing near the door with my ears strained for any sound in the hallway.
Ethan paused. Slowly, he reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled out the worn, creased photograph I had noticed earlier. He placed it gently on the desk.
It showed a middle-aged woman sitting in a hospital bed, hooked up to IV lines. But what caught my photographic memory immediately was the small black tactical glove gripping her shoulder from off-camera.
“That’s my aunt,” Ethan said quietly. “Tyler’s mother, Elena. Two weeks ago, she vanished from the private cardiac clinic in Chicago. The family was told she was transferred to an ICU facility in Switzerland for specialized care. That was a lie.”
Tyler collapsed into an armchair, burying his face in his hands, his sobs muffled against his palms. “They sent me that picture six days ago. They said if I didn’t unlock the south gate at 10:00 p.m. tonight, they’d turn off her oxygen.”
“Who are they, Tyler?” I asked, stepping closer. “The Vance family?”
Tyler looked up, his face pale and wet with tears. “It’s not just the Vances. It’s someone inside our house. The caller knew the exact floor plan of the estate. They knew the shift schedules of every guard. They even knew my uncle Grant was going to hire a new personal bodyguard for Ethan today.”
I froze. A cold sensation trickled down my spine.
“Director Paul Whitaker,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow.
Ethan’s eyes narrowed sharp as razors. “What did you say?”
“My interview at the agency two days ago,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, lethal register. “Director Whitaker rejected me. He threw a planter at me, humiliated me, and sent me home. Then he called me back out of nowhere because three other guards 'happened' to be incapacitated. He didn't pick me because I was available. He picked me because he thought I was a clumsy, fragile woman who would panic and fail the moment bullets started flying.”
I looked at Ethan. “Whitaker is on the Vance payroll. He cleared the way for the hit by sending a guard he believed was utterly useless.”
A slow, dangerous smile crept onto Ethan’s lips—the kind of smile that explained why rival families feared the Blackwood name. “Then Director Whitaker made the last mistake of his life.”
May you like
Before Ethan could finish his sentence, the heavy brass doorknob clicked.
Someone was trying to open the locked study door from the main hall.
