Chapter 7 - THE TRAITOR WITHIN
Victory was within our grasp, but the devil is always in the details.
I woke up to an empty bed. The sheets were cold. A sense of dread washed over me. I grabbed my sidearm and ran down the hallway. Oliver's room was empty. The guards outside his door were unconscious, poisoned.
I sprinted to the security room. The monitors showed a black van tearing out of the back gates. And standing by the open gate, disabling the security system, was Marcus. My consigliere. My brother in arms for fifteen years.
I found him in the garage, packing a duffel bag with cash.
"Why?" I asked, my gun leveled at his head.
Marcus froze, then slowly turned around. "Because you lost your mind, Preston. You put a Rossi bitch on the throne. The men were losing faith. Rossi promised me the north side if I handed her and the brat over to him. It was just business."
A cold, dead calm settled over me. "He has my son."
"He has his leverage," Marcus sneered. "You're finished, Preston."
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I pulled the trigger. Marcus dropped to the floor, a bullet between his eyes. I stepped over his body, pulled out my phone, and called my strike team. There were no more rules. There was no more strategy. There was only wrath.
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