Chapter 657
Chapter 657:
The engine of the armored SUV roared to life, tires screeching against the concrete as they tore out of the warehouse district.
Skye gripped the dashboard, watching the city unfold before her eyes. Protocol Zero wasn’t just a command; it was total mobilization. Within minutes, the dark streets of Las Vegas were flooded with flashing red and blue lights as private security fleets merged with police cruisers. Overhead, the rhythmic thrum of helicopters chopped the air, their searchlights slicing through the desert night like blades, turning the shadows into exposed wounds.
“Alistair,” Liam barked into the comms, swerving around a slow-moving truck. “I want the perimeter locked down. No one leaves the city limits. Check every private airstrip from here to Henderson p>
“Already done,” Alistair’s voice came back, crisp and cold. “The net is tight. If Graves tries to cross into the desert, he’ll trigger a dozen sensors p>
Skye watched a black helicopter bank sharply above them, its spotlight sweeping across the sprawling estates on the outskirts of the city. The beam moved relentlessly, hopping from roof to roof, until it washed over the manicured grounds of the Hayes family estate.
Inside the estate, the atmosphere was suffocating. Beatrice Kensington, or Hayes as she desperately clung to the name, paced the length of the small guest cottage she had been exiled to. She had been effectively quarantined from the main mansion, stripped of her authority but not her desperation. The searchlights cutting through her curtains every few seconds felt like a strobe in a nightmare. Her heels clicked against the floor with a rhythm that drilled straight into her skull. Click. Click. Click. Turn.
She wasn’t worried about Tessa. She wasn’t worried about Lucian. She was worried about her own survival. With private security forces swarming the city, it was only a matter of time before they circled back to her role in the Syndicate’s web.
She picked up her burner phone, her fingers trembling. She couldn’t trust the house lines. She dialed a number she had memorized from a scrap of paper hidden in her jewelry box. It connected to the visitor line at the Metropolitan Correctional Center.
“Connect me to Inmate 7840,” she hissed. “Parker Hayes p>
𝘖r𝗀a𝗇і𝗓𝘦 yo𝘶𝘳 𝗿ea𝖽𝘪𝘯𝗴 l𝗶𝘴𝗍 𝘰𝘯 b𝘦.c𝗈𝘮
There was a crackle of static, then a beep. A recorded voice announced the call was being monitored, but Beatrice knew Parker had ways around that. He was a cockroach; he always found a crack in the wall.
“Well, well,” Parker’s voice came through, tinny and distorted. “If it isn’t the Wicked Witch of the West. Did you forget my visitation day, or are you just missing my sunny disposition p>
Parker Hayes sat in the common room of the detention center, wearing an orange jumpsuit that clashed horribly with his complexion. He held the receiver to his ear, his eyes scanning the guards. He looked thinner, sharper, stripped of his trust-fund arrogance and left with only his survival instincts.
“Listen to me, you ungrateful little wretch,” Beatrice whispered, turning her back to the window as another helicopter buzzed overhead. “Everything is falling apart. That woman, Skye, she has the entire city looking for Lucian. If they find him, he talks. If he talks, we both go down for the explosion. For everything p>
“I’m already down, Beatrice,” Parker drawled, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “I’m in federal prison. It doesn’t get much more ‘down’ than this p>
“I can get you a lawyer. A real one. I can get you access to the offshore accounts,” Beatrice promised, her voice dropping to a desperate hiss. “But I need you to do something for me. You still have contacts on the dark web. You still have the codes p>