A firefight erupted. Bullets tore through walls. Marble splintered under pressure. Ramirez took a graze to the arm; Harper got thrown by the concussion of a flashbang. I dragged him back into cover as the attackers advanced with military precision. These weren’t thugs. These were operatives.
One shouted, “Secure Huxley! Extract now!” They weren’t there to kill us—they were there to recover Graham’s body. Which meant he truly had powerful protection. We fought our way upward, using the mansion’s architecture to funnel attackers into narrow kill zones.
When smoke choked the hallways and alarms wailed, the last operative fled into the woods, leaving Graham behind. The Brotherhood wasn’t invincible after all. We retrieved hard drives, documents, and ledgers from Graham’s office—evidence that traced money back to high-ranking officials who believed they were untouchable. They weren’t.
By the time the sun rose, federal task forces—finally freed from corrupt influence by the evidence we delivered—were raiding safehouses across three states. Arrests piled up. Accounts were frozen. Allies flipped on each other to save themselves. The Brotherhood collapsed in hours.
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