Page 37 of Tag
Graves
The monitor was still flickering with static when the lights came back on.
Smoke rose from the ashtray beside him—his cigar burned down to nothing. The walls of the penthouse office vibrated with tension, the air thick with power… and fury.
He watched the surveillance feed from the ghost ranch collapse into a blank screen.
Dead.
Gone.
His collection. His files. His leverage.
Everything.
Gone in fire and fury.
He stood slowly from behind the glass desk, fingers curled into fists.
The assistant at the door flinched as he entered.
“Who?” Graves asked.
His voice was calm.
Deadly calm.
“We… we believe it was her. The detective. The girl—Aponi Lightfoot.”
He exhaled. “I told them to bring the girl in quietly.”
“They tried. Her team hit them first. She was working with someone named Tag… and her brother.”
Graves’ smile was slow and cold.
“Faron Lightfoot,” he said. “I remember him. Dead weight in Special Forces. Vanished for years. How poetic.”
He walked to the window, looking down at the lights of the city below like a god surveying his kingdom.
“They think they’ve won something,” he murmured. “They haven’t even seen the battlefield.”
The assistant hesitated. “Should I issue a bounty?”
Graves didn’t turn around.
“No,” he said. “I want this personal.”
He reached into the drawer and pulled out a sleek black file with embossed initials.
Project: Redwood.
His last insurance policy. The one he never meant to use.
But this… this was war.
And war required monsters.
He picked up the encrypted phone on his desk.
