Page 125 of Silence and Surrender

Colton

The server room hummed with quiet menace as I slipped inside, my access card still warm in my hand. The decoy had worked perfectly. Sari had triggered the fire alarm, and the bank began following evacuation procedures with exacting precision. The diversion had created enough chaos for me to slip away while Rodger’s security team rushed to secure the executive floor.

Our operation was in motion, but not according to plan. The careful timeline we’d established over months had been abandoned when Rodger moved his operation forward. Now we were racing against his efforts to destroy evidence before Interpol’s raid in Rotterdam.

I navigated to the secure databases, following the path we’d discovered through Rodger’s supposedly impenetrable systems. Each keystroke brought us closer to what we needed. What we could use to burn it all down.

Then the screen changed.

There they were—offshore accounts, shell companies, a whole network of transactions hidden behind art acquisitions. But it was the shipping records that made my blood run cold.

Names. They’d kept records of the girls. Hundreds of them. All logged like paintings. All processed through legitimate-appearing channels.

I was downloading everything to the secure drive Sari had provided when a warning flashed across the screen. Another terminal was accessing my profile, uploading files to my secure area.

They weren’t just destroying evidence—they were creating it. They were setting me up.

“I’d wondered when you might show your true colors.”

The voice from the doorway made me freeze. Rodger stood there, flanked by two guards whose stance and watchful eyes marked them as adversaries, not the usual corporate security.

“Three days ago,” he continued, stepping into the room, “our monitoring picked up anomalies in your network activity. Small things. Almost undetectable.” His smile was cold. “Almost.”

I kept my hands visible, mind racing through options. The download needed another forty seconds to complete. I needed to keep him talking.

“Your monitoring of my private residence was sloppy,” I said. “Only a matter of time before someone else notices.”

“A minor inconvenience.” He moved deeper into the room, his guards fanning out to flank me. “Even if someone did notice, they’ll understand the necessity when they see what you’ve been planning. Money laundering. Connections to known criminals.” His eyes narrowed. “All very thoroughly documented in your own files.”

They’d been building this frame for weeks, I realized. Each strange network glitch Isabella had detected, each suspicious server log—all part of their plan to make me the fall guy if their operation was ever exposed. Which meant they didn’t know I was already working with Interpol. Didn’t know I was beyond framing.

The guards moved, positioning themselves to cut off any escape. These weren’t rent-a-cops—they moved like special forces.

“No witty response?” Rodger’s eyebrow raised. “I expected more from someone who’s managed to fool the board for so long. Though your brother certainly helped with the deception, didn’t he? Cooper Moreau, supposedly retired in Tuscany. Yet so active in certain circles.”

I kept my expression neutral, but my mind was racing. They knew about Cooper. About his role in our operation. How much else had they discovered?

“And all this time…Miss Delacroix has been by your side,” Rodger continued, checking his phone casually.

My blood went cold. Isabella.

“You can’t touch her,” I said quietly, every word a barely controlled threat.

“We already have.” He checked his phone again. “Teams are moving on your penthouse as we speak. Rather sloppy of you, keeping your command center in your own home. Though I suppose sentiment makes fools of us all.”

The download completed with a soft chime.

Terror and rage collided inside me, creating something cold and vicious. Isabella was in danger because of me—because I hadn’t been careful enough.

The thought of Rodger’s men in our home, threatening her—threatening our unborn children—unleashed something primal in me. I could almost feel Stryker’s voice in my ear:Use the fear. Channel it. Make it work for you.

“You’re right,” I said, my hand slowly moving toward my pocket. “Sentiment is dangerous.”

I studied Rodger’s stance, the position of his guards, the distances between us. I could see five different ways this could play out. I chose the one with the highest probability of getting me back to Isabella quickly.

I moved.

I moved with everything Stryker had taught me.

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