Chapter 67

**Emilia Acheson POV**

Red Alert. Hadn’t seen one of those since we got a verified location on Torin Moon in his deluxe penthouse. I come in as early as possible, because I cannot believe what I am hearing. The operation to infiltrate the penthouse was a scene of slaughter, I would know, I was there. Apparently what followed was even worse. Orian Moon was spotted.

I move with swift purpose through the layers of security protocols inside the off-site facility. I scan my biometric data at each checkpoint, running from ingress to ingress. The guards, accustomed to high-stakes scenarios, nod in recognition.

As I finally enter the primary room, I’m greeted by the buzz of urgent chatter. Expansive monitors cover the walls, displaying real-time intelligence feeds, satellite images, and coded communications. The air is thick with the concentrated energy of operatives and analysts, all members of the elite Syndikus Taskforce. Each is engrossed in their specific role, their eyes flicking between screens and rapid-fire conversations.

My entrance snags the attention, though I remain unassuming. Ever since my transfer, these people have treated me like I’m an embedded spy, a foe planted amidst friendlies. My high rank demands cooperation, but it doesn’t require respect, which I care little for—so long as everyone does what they’re supposed to. I stride towards the central table where key taskforce members are gathered.

“Report.”

“It was a bloodbath,” a senior analyst informed. “By the time military squadrons were deployed to the designated location, all individuals within the vicinity were dead. It was him. Orian Moon.” Profiles emerge on the different displays. “Then came, Santos with his own warband. They butchered each other.”

“And Hadassah?” I ask quickly, a flick of panic. “Is she alive?”

“Santos came in with a scourge, most of the footage was damaged during the fire. But I got confirmation on a key-frame before the first of the vehicles left the property. Santos took her. What was left of Orian’s men, they extracted him in time.”

I inhale deeply, thoughts clamoring in my mind.

“Calum Taylor. Was he still with them?”

“Forensics confirm the blood on the wooden deck was his. However, there’s no videographic proof that Santos or Orian has him. As far as we know, he’s severely wounded and he’s in the wind.”

The screens exhibit the profiles of Orian Moon, a formidable Yakuza boss with a reputation for ruthless efficiency, and Santos, the new head of the Blood and Bone cartel. Tensions between them are escalating, exacerbated by the betrayal of Orian’s half-brother, who has aligned himself with the Italian mafia. I know because I was at the club where Torin and Hadassah met up with Tommaso. I study the data intently, absorbing the intricate web of alliances and enmities.

“Tell me how a renowned private investigator, notorious for exposing criminals, manages to stay alive for this long,” says one of the active agents. His insect-like lips shrivel into a snarky smirk. “She’s working with them—or should I say under them.”

This earns him a chorus of scornful laughs from fellow male counterparts.

“How’d you figure?”

His eyes leap to mine with a look that flickers between amusement and animosity. “Of course you would be triggered by that. But it’s the truth. Hadassah Moor was the singular orchestrator behind the incarceration of key suppliers and other pivotal criminal operatives. Now, the Moon Brothers seem to be fighting over her. It must be that she has other hidden talents.”

Another round of rumbling laughs makes his grin lengthen like the tongue of a viper.

“They want something from her. The Genesis of this is Gaza when Hadassah robbed him of the ledger. The true worth of the ledger surpasses our initial comprehension, as evidenced by the various crime syndicates vying for its possession, more than money but leverage.” I hurl a quick finger at the screens. “Hadassah is the center of the complex interplay of power that threatens to ignite a full-scale conflict. The fact that she has survived this long is something to be admired, not mocked. All the beauty or talents in the world won’t keep you alive if you become a liability in their eyes. It took skill and wit to endure this long. Which is why if the roles were reversed and it was you instead of her. Your mangled corpse would have been found on the shore the very morning after Gaza was robbed.”

He seethes silently as his entourage sneak stifled laughs with their fists on their mouths. The female analysts shoot grateful glances, most smiling at their screens.

“Can the vehicle that had her be traced?”

One of the analysts pulls up the footage post-attack.

Every movement is monitored, every maneuver analyzed. The vehicle's route was mapped out in real-time, with live drone feeds providing aerial views, and city street surveillance offering ground-level perspectives. The taskforce had eyes on every possible angle, ensuring that no detail was overlooked. And yet…

Suddenly, the vehicle began executing a series of smart maneuvers. The analysts' fingers dance over their keyboards, marking each turn and swerve with precise coordinates. The tension in the room heighten as the vehicle approached a busy intersection. Then, in a coordinated and calculated move, the convoy of vehicles split. The one with Hadassah seemed to vanish into thin air.

The drones had managed to capture footage of the dispersing convoy, but the primary target was nowhere to be seen. Analysts had tapped into the city’s CCTV network, attempting to regain sight of the vehicle but to no avail.

“They must have done the car swap here,” says a senior analyst, pointing to a location on the map with minimal surveillance coverage, quickly identifying the blind spot. The room vibrates with renewed focus as they replay footage from the blind spot area, searching for any clue that could reveal the vehicle's new identity.

Despite our best efforts, the vehicle carrying Hassadah had vanished. The analysts scrutinized every possible lead, but the sophistication of the maneuver had outsmarted our surveillance. I depart to my workstation to explore other leads or resurrect dead ones. Anything at this point. We could almost never track these criminal entities successfully before, I’m not surprised that time was no different. Somehow, always ten steps ahead. One thing Hadassah helped me see was that we are leaking information—we have no idea who is compromised or who is simply in their pocket. No one is free from suspicion, which is why I can see why the others are apprehensive of me, but one of their own was a mole. A true American and there he was knee to floor before Orian Moon and died in service to him

Ever since the cross-criminal conflict. Confidential sources have gone silent or turned up dead. Alot of undercover operatives have been pulled from active assignments. Since the shift of power from Gaza to Santas and the split of the Moons; the inner hierarchies have been dismantled and reshuffled, which meant reevaluations, and agencies couldn’t risk the exposure of an asset. It was safer to pull the chord no matter how iron-clad an alias was.

My dual-screen setup: one screen shows detailed reports on international syndicates, while the other is dedicated to real-time surveillance feeds and encrypted communications.

My workstation is secure with encrypted network access, and multiple layers of cybersecurity protocols. My fingers fly over the keyboard, running advanced searches and cross-referencing data points with practiced efficiency.

Suddenly, an unusual blip appears on my screen, followed by a series of rapidly changing windows. My eyes narrow before I realize my system is being hacked. I initiate a series of countermeasures, but the breach is way too sophisticated. My so-called secure search is interrupted, and unauthorized code begins infiltrating my system. A flurry of alerts and warnings cascading across my screens.

Before I can scream to alert someone—I see the covert message.

**Easy there, beach-blondie.**

A small gasp escapes me. *Calum Taylor.*