Chapter 3 - Shadows Over the EstateThe peace was never meant to last. In my line of work, peace is merely the brief interval between storms.
Four weeks after Ghost arrived, the Vasquez syndicate struck.
It didn't begin with gunfire. Hector Vasquez was too cowardly for a direct assault on my main estate. Instead, he started squeezing my supply lines—hijacking three shipping containers at the docks and executing two of my mid-level supervisors in cold blood.
The message left at the docks was written in red paint on the side of a rusted container: RETURN WHAT IS MINE, MERCER, OR I TAKE EVERYTHING.
I called an emergency council of my senior lieutenants in the estate's subterranean meeting room. The air was thick with cigar smoke and tension.
"He wants a war, Boss," Marcus said, slamming his hand onto the table. "He’s using the dog as a pretext to claim we violated the territory treaty. He says we stole property from his breeding yard."
"It's not about the dog," Vince interjected from the corner. "Vasquez knows Mr. Mercer’s operation has been expanding into the harbor districts. He’s trying to force us onto the defensive before the autumn shipping contracts are signed."
I sat at the head of the table, turning a heavy silver coin between my fingers. "Where is Hector hiding?"
"He’s moved to his compound near the river," Marcus said. "Guarded by at least thirty men. Heavily armed. If we go in there, it’s going to be a slaughter on both sides."
"I don't care about his men," I said, my voice dropping to that flat, terrible tone that made every man in the room straighten up. "I care about finality. If Hector Vasquez thinks he can threaten my family, he has forgotten why I run this city."
"What about Lady Wren?" Vince asked quietly. "If we mobilize, the estate will be vulnerable."
"Increase the guards on the perimeter to twenty," I ordered. "No one enters or leaves without my personal clearance code. Marcus, gear up the strike team. We move on the river compound tomorrow at midnight."
The next day, the atmosphere in the house was heavy, suffocating.
Animals have an uncanny instinct for human distress. Ghost refused to leave Wren’s side all morning. Wherever she went—from the playroom to the library—the pitbull lagged right behind her, his tail low, his dark eyes constantly scanning the doorways.
At five in the afternoon, I went to say goodbye to Wren before the tactical briefing.
I found her in the sunroom. Rain was misting against the glass walls, casting long, gray shadows across the floor. Wren was sitting on a plush rug, her arms wrapped tightly around Ghost’s neck. The dog was lying completely flat, letting her bury her face in his chest.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them.
"Wren," I said softly.
She looked up. She saw the tactical vest under my dark jacket, the extra magazines strapped to my belt. Her eyes widened slightly, her pupils dilating with a sudden, sharp recognition.
She had seen me dressed like this once before—the night her mother didn't come home.
She scrambled to her feet, her small hands catching my sleeve as I stepped into the room. She shook her head furiously, her fingers digging into the fabric of my coat, pulling me downward.
"I have to go to work, sweetheart," I told her, kneeling so I was at eye level with her. "I’ll be back before breakfast."
She shook her head again, faster this time, tears brimming in her dark eyes. She opened her mouth, her chest heaving as she tried to force air through her throat, but nothing came out—only a choked, heartbreaking gasp of air.
She snatched her chalk from the coffee table and aggressively scribbled on the tile floor:
NO GO. BAD.
"I have to," I whispered, holding her small, trembling face in my hands. "I have to make sure it's safe for you. For both of you." I glanced at Ghost, who had stood up and was now watching me with an intensely serious expression, his broad chest forward.
"Guard her," I said to the dog, looking directly into his eyes. "You keep her safe, Ghost."
The dog gave a single, quiet huff of air, stepping closer until his side was pressed against Wren's legs.
Wren grabbed my hand, placed it against Ghost's neck, and then pressed her own hand over mine. It was her way of binding the promise.
May you like
"I'll be back," I promised, kissing her forehead.
I turned and walked out of the house, leaving behind the only light in my dark existence, ignorant of the fact that Hector Vasquez had never intended to wait for my attack at the river.
