Chapter 600
Chapter 600:
Lucian looked at the dark water, then back at Alistair. “I’d rather face the sharks than the Syndicate p>
He didn’t jump. He simply raised his hands, a gesture of surrender that felt more like a mockery. “But today, I choose a cell. It’s safer p>
The extraction team moved in. Lucian and Victoria were handcuffed. As they were led away, Lucian caught Skye’s eye and mouthed one word: Soon.
It was over.
Victoria was arrested, sobbing, still clutching her stomach as if the fake baby could save her.
Alistair and Skye stood on the roof of Thorne Tower that night. The city lights of Port Valor twinkled below—no longer a threat, but a conquest.
“The Syndicate,” Skye mused. “Do you think he was lying p>
“Lucian was a liar,” Alistair said, wrapping his arm around her. “But he was also a coward. He wouldn’t invent a boogeyman unless he was scared of one p>
“So it’s not over,” Skye said.
“It’s never over.” Alistair kissed her forehead. “But tonight? Tonight we won p>
Skye leaned into him. She touched the pink diamond on her finger. It felt warm.
“Let’s go home,” Skye said. “I miss my dog p>
Alistair smiled. “Let’s go home p>
As they walked away, the wind blew a piece of paper across the roof. It was a page from Parker’s briefcase, which had burst open in the scuffle.
It was a list of names.
Thorne.
Sterling.
Kensington.
Vance.
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And below them, a new name, circled in red.
Blackwood.
Skye stopped. She stared at the name “Kensington p>
“Liam is on the list,” she whispered, a sudden chill gripping her heart. “He’s in prison. He’s a sitting duck p>
Alistair saw the fear in her eyes. He tightened his grip on her hand. “I’ll double the guard on his cell tonight. No one touches him, Skye. I promise p>
The wind carried the paper away, out over the dark ocean, waiting for the next storm.
The air in the temporary command center at the Port Valor docks was not just stale; it was recycled despair, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and ozone. The heavy metal door of the shipping container turned office had been closed for three hours, sealing in the scent of cold coffee, gun oil, and sweat.
Skye Sterling sat at the head of the makeshift table. She did not lean back. Her spine was a rigid line, her shoulders set in a posture that suggested she was bracing for a collision—or perhaps causing one. She stared down the length of the table at Felix and the tactical team leader.
“Explain to me,” Skye said, her voice dangerously quiet, “how we went from victory on the rooftop to this catastrophe in less than sixty minutes p>