Chapter 10
The lodge was quiet, insulated against the raging blizzard outside. The bright, cinematic lighting had been dimmed slightly to allow the child to sleep, casting long, peaceful shadows across the room. Winston sat in the leather armchair, staring into the flames, the wooden airplane resting on the armrest beside him.
Suddenly, the encrypted, secure satellite phone in Winston’s trousers began to vibrate heavily.
Winston’s eyes narrowed. Very few people had that number, and even fewer would dare to call it on the night of his birthday celebration unless it was a matter of syndicate survival. He shifted Jamal gently to his left arm, ensuring the boy remained asleep, and pulled the phone out with his right hand.
The caller ID displayed a heavily encrypted international routing number.
Winston pressed the answer button and brought the phone to his ear. "Speak."
A slow, distorted, chillingly calm voice echoed through the speaker. The American accent was faint, masked by a digital scrambler.
"Happy Birthday, Winston," the voice said, a dark, mocking amusement laced in the tone.
"Who is this?" Winston demanded, his voice a low, lethal hum.
"I heard you had to do some housecleaning tonight," the voice continued, completely ignoring his question. "It’s a shame about Preston. He was weak, but he was useful. He was very willing to share your shipping manifests with us in exchange for a little side profit."
Winston’s jaw locked. Preston hadn't just been cruel; he had been a traitor, selling out the syndicate's operational secrets to a rival faction.
"If you did business with my son, you are doing business with a ghost," Winston stated coldly. "He is dead to me. And if you attempt to use those manifests, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth."
"I don't need the manifests anymore, Winston," the voice chuckled, a sound that made the hairs on the back of Winston's neck stand up. "I already have what I need. Preston was just a distraction."
"A distraction from what?" Winston asked, his hand instinctively drifting toward the heavy, suppressed pistol holstered beneath his cashmere sweater.
"From the perimeter," the voice whispered.
Winston’s eyes darted toward the massive glass windows at the front of the lodge. Through the swirling, heavy snow of the blizzard, the bright exterior security lights flickered—and then went completely, pitch black.
The entire mountain lodge was suddenly plunged into darkness.
"You threw your son out into the cold," the voice said softly through the phone. "But you forgot to lock the gate behind him. We're coming in, Winston. And we're coming for the boy."
May you like
The line went dead.
Winston stood up slowly in the dark, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fireplace. He held the sleeping Jamal tightly against his chest, drawing his weapon with his free hand. The internal purge was over, but the true war for the survival of his bloodline had just arrived at his front door.
