Chapter 126

**Calum POV**

It’s my fault.
When I tried to hack the plane's transponder to try to track it. Someone almost, almost as smart as me piggybacked off my backtrace to locate the signal of the plane. And sending an infectant to burrow through my firewalls like a damn worm—compromising my systems and managing to steal data partials. But I kicked them out and reinforced my defenses because they're just good, but I’m way better.
And yet… I can’t stop what’s unfolding. Nothing can.
Torin and his entire team, along with myself, relocated to the Turkish fringe, set up in a small scale bastion, not far from Armend’s palace. He did that the moment he found out that the intrusion came from Orian. There’s only one thing that causes a flash of fear in him and that’s his brother. Torin and his head of security have been on my ass like bees on beeswax.
I struggled before because the power in the palace grounds went out. But now it came back likely because of a generator and they have backup power because the main grid is still down. I sit hunched over a sleek setup of multiple screens, fingers flying across the keyboard with precision. Each keystroke is calculated, bypassing layers of encrypted security, worming my way into the palace grounds' surveillance network. My eyes are locked on the screen, the pale light reflecting off his face as lines of code flicker, data cascading.
Torin paces behind me with his eyes fixated on the monitors, as if he understands what I’m doing. He sent Anna away, but the guard guy remains hovering closeby like a hulking shadow. Moments of suspenseful silence, then success—the cameras flicker to life. Grainy at first, then crystal clear. I now have eyes on the estate.
“I got visual.”
Both men rush at me and Torin sends his guard a nasty, dirty look that he doesn’t even see. His eyes are dead bolted to the sectors springing into view. Sectors of the sprawling palace grounds stretch out, illuminated by spotlights cutting through the dark, regal gardens and marble pathways swarmed with heavily armed security.
I jolt upright in my seat, my eyes suddenly too big for their sockets.
History has a funny way of repeating itself.
All the screens blink—movement.
Black-clad figures, emerging from the shadows like ghosts, fast and silent. The combatants are unmarked, their faces hidden clad in black that blends into the night. They surge through the estate, moving with military precision, drawing away the on-site guards.
I zoom in, switching between feeds—I notice a random white Lamborghini Urus in the front yard near the primary gate. We all watch as the black-clad figures close in like predators stalking prey.
Gunfire erupts—sharp, precise, and devastating. Muzzle flashes briefly light up the night as the unmarked soldiers unleash coordinated fury. The palace guards don’t stand a chance. They drop like marionettes with cut strings, overwhelmed in seconds. My camera feed shows bodies crumpling, blood staining the pristine stone walkways, security forces scrambling to react, only to be mowed down as soon as they raise their weapons.
Orian emerges like a demon specter.
Torin turns away sharply before he wheels back around to watch.
Orian unsheathes two—not one—but* two swords*! One in each has as he skulks out of the shadows, slipping out of a blindspot, slinking up behind an oblivious unit of guards who are hyper focused on the contingent of combatants ahead of them.
Orian thrusts forward, driving his blade into the lower back of one of them—the tip jutting out just above his hipline. He wrenches it out ruthlessly; he spins and with a powerful arc—he decapitates him. With lightning-quick maneuvers that my mind cannot even comprehend. He whips around them with a flurry of strikes, the edges of the blades ripping flesh from their necks as blood bursts from their throats.
On the other screens, chaos prevails. Guards are cut down without mercy, bullets ripping through even the ones fortunate to be wearing any type of armor as the invaders sweep through the estate, systematic, cold. There’s no wasted movement, no hesitation, no humanity.
I tap a few keys, shifting to another camera. The palace’s outer defenses are in ruins—security posts decimated, alarms blaring across my screens, but no reinforcements come. My heart pounds, watching the invaders move deeper, closer to the palace itself. They are searching. He is searching. For her… he won’t stop, he really won’t stop. He will never cease his search for her, and if the path is a river of blood, he will wade through its depths as long as it carries him back to her.
Switching to another feed, we watch the combatants pouring into the courtyard, smoke from flashbangs and grenades rolling across the grounds like a thick fog, swallowing up everything in its path. Through the haze, we catch glimpses of guards staggering, disoriented, only to be gunned down before they can find their bearings. The unmarked assailants move like shadows, gliding through the smoke, slipping in and out of visibility, as if the darkness itself bends to their will.
My fingers twitch over the keyboard, but I retract before I decide on an alternate course of action. The feed zooms in on the palace’s inner gate, where the last line of defense falls in a hail of gunfire. The security forces are wiped out, their bodies scattered across the grounds like knocked pieces on a board game. *Checkmate, bitch.*
I lean back, eyes glued to the screen as the unmarked soldiers fan out, their black figures moving with chilling purpose. The palace is his now. But once again, Hadassah is not. I don’t know where she is or Emilia but I don’t care. Frankly, anywhere else is better than anywhere he is.
“Where is she?” the guard demands.
“Where are they all?” Torin weighs in objectively. “Armend had a supply of at least two dozen girls.”
“Supply?” I interject. “Those women are human beings, not cargo.”
“Either way, they’re still missing,” he says with cruel carelessness. “So find them.”
“I’m a hacker, not God.”
“The way you talk about yourself and your skills, one would think they’re one in the same,” he says with a speed and smoothness that makes my skin simmer from just beneath the surface.
I switch through the feeds until it lands on Orian. And I zoom in. And I think he just figured out that none of the women are on site and he doesn’t like that news. Because one of the face-covered combatants grudgingly retreats, a few steps away from him as a safety hazard. Orian doesn’t lash out or anything—he just sheathes the swords and walks off. And even that simple act is scary.
Torin mutters something incoherent before he leaves the room. I’m not worried because my women are warriors. Even if they’re in deep trouble, I know one of them will figure out a way to signal me. I know, like I know the spelling of my own name, that they’re okay, better than okay. Because all of the women are gone because I know Hadassah escaped and I know she would never leave anyone behind just like Emilia has proven that she shares the same creed. They’re a lot alike then they would ever care to admit.
I glance at the guard who’s still in the room. Besides unbound worry, there is something else that exists behind that steel reinforced guard. Behind that grief is guilt, and I have no idea why a Spartan man, duty bound to Torin, would care so hard, so heavily in a way that causes his hard-wearing resolve to unravel.
“I’ll find her,” I say, not a promise or a pledge because those hold no guarantee. I say it as a fact because it’s etched into reality, because no true danger will reach them. Not when I’m still alive.
The guard doesn’t acknowledge me at all.
So I turn away to focus forward, trying to think of a way to get ahead. Hadassah still has her necklace that has the embedded tracker inside but that signal is spotty as hell. And I had no time to reconfigure it. So I spend several hours at the desk and the guard is like the soldier that he is—he remains posted like a sentinel, quite literally standing on business. A medic even comes into the room. I try to mind myself but she’s practically begging him to let her treat and replace his gauze and bandages. He refutes and sends her away.
Suddenly I get a ping. A notification that funds were drawn from one of my offshore accounts.* Emilia!* And I easily trace the withdrawal back to a sequestered and distant motel. I know exactly where they are.
“Do you have anything yet?” the guard questions.
I nearly flinch at the sound of his voice like a young Kratos, deep and rumbling.
I cast a fast glance over my shoulder. “Still looking.”
I look forward, stifling a small smile.