CHAPTER 136: TARGET ACQUIRED

–Sophia–

Last night was a full-on battlefield of passion, and this morning wasn’t any less of a firefight. My body felt like I’d just gone through a three-day combat drill with no rest, and yet this man—this incorrigible, maddening, frustratingly skilled man—still had the stamina to get up and function as if he’d just woken from a strategic power nap. Meanwhile, my muscles were filing complaints. I wasn’t sure if I could get on my feet for whatever mission Livana had tossed onto my lap today, but I was a soldier. I’d crawl to the field if I had to.

"Are you sure you can walk?" Kai teased, his voice laced with that infuriating smugness that made me want to plant a well-aimed strike to his ribs.

"I swear, I’m going to hit that handsome face of yours," I hissed, raising my hand in a mock strike. He leaned his head forward, presenting it like a damn bullseye, daring me. My lips curled into a sneer.

He caught my hand midair, his fingers warm and commanding, and instead of blocking or countering like any trained man would do, he brought my knuckles to his lips and kissed them.

Damn it. I should have flushed. I did flush—deep inside where my discipline was supposed to be. Kai was a handsome bastard, and I still couldn’t wrap my head around why his ex-fiancée cheated on him. Maybe she was blind, or maybe Kai never gave her the kind of focused, undivided attention he gave me. And when I say focused, I mean sniper-laser focused. I’d never met a man so determined to study a woman’s body like it was a map to a classified target, and then proceed to hit every objective with precision strikes. Men before him were just... fine. Passable. But him? He was a one-man tactical unit dedicated to destruction—in the best way possible.

He revved his big bike, that beast of a machine growling like a combat engine ready for deployment, and we headed to the site. Our mission drop-off point? A house.

"Oh," I murmured, hopping off the bike as Kai killed the engine. The house stood isolated—not too far from the city, but enough to be strategic. I slung my backpack forward, retrieved the envelope, and rang the doorbell. Seconds later, a man in a crisp white uniform emerged, a security guard with eyes scanning like a perimeter drone.

"Hi," I greeted with a professional smile, adjusting the envelope in my grip. "Is this the Torres residence?"

"Yes, ma’am," the guard replied, his stance straight. "How can I help you?"

"We’re here to deliver this envelope to Carmelo Torres," I said, raising my voice just enough for the intercoms and cameras to catch. His nod was curt as I extended the envelope. My eyes flicked up to the house—a shadow moved on the balcony. A man stood there, binoculars trained on us like we were hostiles approaching his base.

"Tell him it’s from Livana Braxton-Carrington," I added.

"Yes, ma’am."

I turned sharply, snapping my helmet back on. Kai was already mounted, waiting with that calm readiness I’d come to find dangerously appealing. I swung onto the bike, wrapped my arms around his waist, and glanced back. The house bristled with security cameras—more than the standard home-defense setup. Someone was either paranoid or hiding something.

Kai revved up, and we pulled away.

"I wonder who that person was," I muttered.

The helmets were linked, microphones open for comms.

"Hmm," Kai replied, his voice low. "Probably tied to whatever Livana’s got her hands in. Logan’s not around—bet he’s running some parallel op."

I nodded slightly, though he couldn’t see it. "Hmm."

"Mission complete," he said after a stretch of silence. "Now, how about a date? Just you and me."

"Sure. Where to?" I asked, my voice light but my mind still cataloguing every detail of that compound.

We stopped at a pedestrian crossing. The road stretched wide, a perfect ambush corridor. I hugged his waist, and he patted my hand reassuringly.

Then it hit—the wrong sound at the wrong time. Tires screaming, engine roaring behind us. I caught the flash in the side mirror. A white Ford Everest bearing down on us while the traffic light blinked red. No hesitation. No braking. That was no accident—that was a hostile intent vehicle.

"Kai—!" I barked, instincts flaring.

He was already fighting to keep the bike upright, muscles locked, body angling to absorb the impact.

This was intentional.

"Jump!" he ordered.

Training overrode everything else. I pushed off the bike, hit the ground rolling just as the car swerved. The bastard didn’t stop. He was gunning straight for me. That white Ford was a steel kiss of death barreling down.

I launched over the hood, my hands hitting cold metal, my body vaulting like an urban op. My sidearm was already in my grip before my boots touched asphalt. The window cracked open just enough—muzzle flash.

I fired first.

Round hit his wrist, his gun went wide. They were shooting from the hood—sloppy, desperate.

I spun, scanning for Kai. He was down on one knee, bike toppled but still fighting to get up, his shoulder bloodied but his eyes sharp.

Why? Why now? Was it the parcel? Was this about Carmelo Torres?

My mind barely had time to process when the car lost control, veering into a tree. I moved to flank, finger ready to fire, when the unexpected happened—a sharp, echoing crack from the treeline. Then another. Sniper rounds. Glass shattered, skulls popped like rotten fruit. One by one, the occupants inside the Ford went limp, their bodies collapsing like discarded dummies.

I froze, breath heavy, eyes scanning rooftops and high ground. Where’s the shooter? Who the hell’s playing overwatch here?

Kai staggered toward me, clutching his shoulder but steady. "You good?" His voice was tight with pain but still calculating.

"Arm’s fine," I muttered, scanning the perimeter. "Eyes up—sniper in play. Could be friendly, could be clean-up crew."

The Ford was a mess—engine smoking, bullet holes peppering every window shield. Blood pooled beneath the doors.

"What the hell was that?" I whispered, my voice colder now. "That’s not random street trash. That’s a hit. A professional one."

–Livana–

I glanced at my wristwatch—precise, synchronized to the second. By now, the parcel should have reached its intended hands. Louie had cleared his entire schedule for this one-on-one, an intense debriefing masquerading as a simple meeting. He was restless beneath that polished exterior, like a system running a hidden background process he didn’t want me to see.

I picked up the disposable phone, a clean line with no breadcrumbs, and placed it on speaker. The encrypted channel hummed briefly before connecting.

"Hello, Carmelo Torres."

Louie’s eyes widened, the kind of look that betrayed more than he wished. He hadn’t anticipated this call—hadn’t expected I could bridge his family’s private firewall so effortlessly.

"Livana," came the response, smooth but weathered, a voice that carried both age and authority. "It’s been a while."

Louie turned to me, startled, perhaps calculating how much I already knew. I smiled faintly. This was not information meant for his level clearance.

"Indeed, Mr. Torres," I replied evenly.

"I’m surprised you managed to reach out... and trace us," he said, tone laced with caution. "Do you understand the consequences?"

"Of course," I allowed myself a soft chuckle. "Neither the Bishop nor the Pieces are involved. I used an external handler—unaffiliated, untraceable by your system logs."

A pause on the line. Then, a low hum. "Hmm. Are you aware there are assassins tailing your right hand?"

I tilted my head slightly, the light catching on the curve of my lips. "Uh-huh. Contingencies are already in motion. Your location remains sealed off, as does your family’s. But Louie here is still... persistent. He insists I surrender the compass."

"You must," Carmelo said firmly. "That artifact is volatile. It needs to be destroyed."

"What if I told you it’s already been destroyed?"

His chuckle was dry, skeptical—like static before a data breach. "I doubt that, Livana. You are, after all, Ines’s firstborn. Sharper than your mother, but perhaps just as calculating."

The mention of my mother was deliberate—a probe. My expression didn’t flinch. I already had Logan deploy a covert overwatch: snipers in position to guard Sophia and Kai. The attack earlier wasn’t from Carmelo’s men; his pattern didn’t match the strike signature. Someone else had executed that play, someone with access to fragments of the old system.

And since I couldn’t afford Louie’s family residence leaking into hostile hands, I’d have to terminate those interlopers—cleanly, efficiently. A bullet to the skull was still the fastest firewall.

"What do you think I should do, Carmelo?" I asked, my tone silk over steel.

He didn’t answer immediately. He knew I wasn’t really asking for advice—I was triangulating his intent.

What I wanted now was the core—the architect behind this code that still lived in the dark web’s veins, siphoning intel into the compass. The data kept replicating, like a stubborn malware lodged in a legacy system. It couldn’t be my mother—she was already six feet under, her code fragments buried with her. Someone else from the original development team was still active, still feeding this ghost program.

I traced a fingertip across the table, as though outlining an invisible circuit. "This program isn’t just alive, Carmelo. It’s evolving. Self-replicating. Someone’s keeping the servers warm."