Chapter 9 - The Target on Her Back
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The hunting cabin upstate was completely empty, freezing, and entirely devoid of Vanessa Cole.
Julian spent two hours tearing the small wooden structure apart, screaming her name into the dark, snowy woods, absolutely terrified that his key to the syndicate throne had vanished or, worse, turned against him.
Defeated, freezing, and completely unaware that he had just been masterfully manipulated, Julian drove the two hours back to the Whitfield estate.
It was 4:00 AM when his heavy SUV pulled through the wrought-iron gates. He didn't notice the new guards stationed at the perimeter, because they were wearing the same tactical gear as his mercenaries. He didn't notice the blood that had been meticulously scrubbed from the marble steps.
He walked through the front doors, exhausted and furious.
“Where the hell is Marco?” Julian shouted into the seemingly empty foyer, expecting his new capo to greet him.
The house was dead silent. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
Julian’s survival instincts finally kicked in. He drew his silver pistol, stepping cautiously toward the main living room. The heavy mahogany doors were slightly ajar.
He pushed them open with the barrel of his gun.
The room was pitch black, save for a single spotlight illuminating a heavy oak chair in the center of the Persian rug.
Sitting in the chair was Vanessa Cole.
She was still wearing the dirty silk robe, shivering violently, her wrists bound securely to the armrests with heavy zip-ties. A thick piece of silver duct tape covered her mouth, her eyes wide and overflowing with absolute, unadulterated terror as she looked at Julian.
“Vanessa!” Julian gasped, rushing forward, completely abandoning his situational awareness. “Who did this to you? Where are my men?”
As he reached out to rip the tape from her mouth, the heavy doors of the living room slammed shut behind him with a deafening crash.
The bright overhead chandeliers blazed to life, blinding Julian for a fraction of a second.
When his vision cleared, he realized he was completely surrounded. Twenty heavily armed, loyalist enforcers stood in the shadows, their weapons leveled directly at his chest.
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And sitting casually on the leather sofa, holding a glass of expensive bourbon, was a ghost.
“Hello, Julian,” Daniel said softly, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I hope the drive to the cabin wasn't too treacherous.”
