Chapter 22
2200words
En Route to Sinclair Dominion HQ
The cold morning air pressed faintly against the windows, painting faint fog along the glass. Frost still clung to the edges of the highway signs, and the winter sun was taking its time to rise—its pale light catching the glass towers in the distance and scattering the day into something deceptively quiet. A fine day, cold but fine. The sort of morning that didn’t make promises, but didn’t threaten either.
Inside the lead car, the heat was humming gently. Sebastian’s hands were steady on the wheel, eyes forward but half-listening. Beside him, Eli tapped something on his tablet, the slight flick-flick of his stylus barely audible over the low hum of tires against pavement.
In the back seat, Lucian leaned into the conversation, one ankle casually crossed over the other. His voice was measured, clipped in that way it got when numbers were involved.
“So if we agree to the revised terms by Monday,” he said, glancing between Eli and the screen, “we’re locked into a dual front—public and private—on both transport and resource management.”
“That’s assuming the council doesn’t interfere,” Eli murmured, tapping a quick note. “But yes. It’s solid leverage. We’ll have coverage from the Pacific branch, plus loyalty from two provinces.”
Kristina, sitting next to Lucian with her shoulder lightly resting against the seat, spoke without looking up. “You trust their loyalty?”
“Not really,” Eli replied, lips quirking faintly. “But I trust their desperation. It’s functionally the same thing.”
Sebastian gave a quiet snort of agreement. “That’s optimism. You feeling alright?”
Lucian’s mouth lifted, just slightly. “We’ll take what we can get.”
Kristina glanced out the window, her breath lightly fogging the glass. The morning had weight, but none of it was heavy yet. Just quiet momentum.
Ash was whistling something tuneless behind the wheel, one hand lazily draped over the steering column. He wore a bomber jacket over a thermal, and his sunglasses were still too dark for the overcast morning.
Vex, in the passenger’s seat, looked as if he’d just rolled out of sleep and into technology. One leg crossed over the other, tablet in hand, he scrolled like it was muscle memory. News feeds, defense updates, corporate chatter. Same as every morning.
“—I’m just saying,” Ash continued, squinting ahead, “if you really want the good chili, you go to Fifth and Marsh. Not that overpriced fusion garbage you dragged me to.”
“That fusion garbage,” Vex replied dryly without looking up, “won a culinary award. Unlike your digestive system.”
“I stand by it,” Ash said. “My system is efficient. Like a war machine.”
“I pity your arteries.”
“Jealousy looks bad on you, man.”
Vex made a sound of vague amusement. His thumb flicked again. And then—
He stilled.
“...No,” he muttered.
Ash didn’t turn. “What?”
Vex’s jaw locked. He rotated the tablet toward Ash for a second, enough for the bold headline to burn in full, crisp font.
BLACK HARROW UNMASKED: SINCLAIR DOMINION’S SILENT WEAPON
“Son of a—” Ash’s voice dropped.
“Sending it through now,” Vex said, already moving. He tapped twice, uploading the article to the secure channel. “Eli—you’re gonna want to see this.”
A faint beep sounded in Eli’s earpiece.
Then silence.
He looked down at his tablet. Blinked. Stared.
Kristina’s gaze flicked to him instinctively. She caught the shift in his breathing before she saw the color drain slightly from his face.
Sebastian frowned. “What is it?”
But Eli didn’t answer. His eyes widened as the page loaded—the headline hitting like a silent detonation.
Behind him, Kristina leaned slightly forward, her voice low but steady. “What is it, Eli?”
He didn’t respond right away.
Lucian’s head tilted just enough to notice the weight in the air had changed. The casual rhythm of their conversation had vanished, replaced by something colder—more still. A silence that didn’t belong to the weather.
“What’s going on?” Lucian asked, voice sharp but not unkind.
Eli exhaled, short and quiet, then turned in his seat to offer the tablet to Lucian.
Lucian’s eyes dropped to the screen.
There, in stark white font. Beneath it: a grainy mission still—Black Harrow mid-strike. Gun drawn. Movements sharp. A hooded veil cloaked her face, but the stance, the build, the style—too distinctive to ignore. Shadows blurred the background. Firelight painted the edge of her scarf in flickers of gold.
Beside it: a second image. Clearer. Recent. Kristina Alonzo, captured in motion during the ambush at the industrial site. Her face exposed. Her weapon drawn the same way. Her stance—identical.
And below those: a split-screen video compilation. Side-by-side comparisons of Black Harrow’s missions and Kristina’s takedowns as Lucian’s bodyguard.
Same precision. Same efficiency. Frame-by-frame overlays from mission logs, security footage, even news coverage from the warehouse attack.
Labeled. Cross-referenced. Matched.
Time paused. Then narrowed.
No one spoke.
Kristina didn’t blink. Her breath was slow. Quiet. But her pulse visibly moved at her neck—steady. Controlled. Practiced.
Lucian stared at the headline. Then the footage. Then her.
Her expression didn’t shift.
Eli’s voice broke the silence. Low. Focused. “There’s more. Archived mission clips. Traced kill markers. The BH insignia matched to her last known takedown. It’s built to be airtight.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened. “How widespread?”
Eli didn’t hesitate. “Top of every feed. It’s global. Even the encrypted forums are circulating it now.”
Sebastian muttered a curse under his breath. His grip on the steering wheel went white-knuckled.
Lucian didn’t ask who leaked it. Not yet.
He looked at Kristina again—not with accusation, not with fear. Just a quiet, unreadable stillness. As if bracing for something heavier than exposure.
She met his eyes.
She held his gaze. Quiet. Unshaken.
Sinclair Dominion HQ
Late Morning
The moment they entered the building, everything changed.
Security gave her longer-than-normal glances. The receptionist—a new intern—half-stood when Kristina passed, then sat again, awkwardly. Aides in the hallway whispered behind closed conference doors.
Kristina walked like she didn’t notice. But Lucian watched her closely. She didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. She just kept walking.
They reached the executive floor without a word.
Once the office door shut behind them, Eli sank into the couch with a groan, rubbing his temple. “The whole board’s talking. The press is asking for statements. A few former clients are calling.”
“And investors?” Lucian asked.
“About half are panicking. The rest want a meeting.”
Sebastian stood at the window, hands in his coat pockets. “This was strategic. Someone wanted this exposed.”
Lucian’s gaze shifted to Kristina, who had yet to sit. She stood near the wall of bookshelves, motionless.
Before he could speak, the door burst open.
Two investors stormed in—middle-aged, tailored suits, expressions tight with fear and anger. One of them pointed. “Is it true? That she’s that assassin? The one from the Redvale incident? And the other assassinations? You have a killer on your staff?”
“She’s saved more lives more times than you know,” Lucian said evenly.
“She’s a liability—”
“She’s my liability,” Lucian cut in, voice sharp enough to leave silence in its wake. “And she’s under my protection.”
The men hesitated, glanced at Kristina, and retreated. The door clicked shut behind them.
Kristina didn’t move.
A heavy silence followed—until Vex, who had remained standing near the desk, broke it. “There’s something wrong with those videos.”
Lucian turned to him. “What do you mean?”
“The footage from the industrial site,” Vex said, arms crossed. “That place was abandoned. Electricity was cut months before we got there. And even if there were cameras, they wouldn’t have been working. So where the hell did they get those angles?”
Ash chimed in from the corner. “Yeah. Clean angles. Stable. Like they were shot for evidence—or broadcast.”
Sebastian turned from the window, jaw tight. “That was a setup. Someone wanted the world to see her. That wasn’t surveillance. It was bait.”
Eli nodded grimly. “Then this wasn’t just a leak. It was staged. And whoever orchestrated it knew exactly what they were doing.”
Lucian looked to Kristina, then back at the team. “The man from the ambush. The one who used her call sign.”
Ash muttered, “He wanted her unmasked.”
Lucian’s voice dropped low. “And now the world knows.”
He looked to Eli. “Call Maxim. We need him here. Now. I’m sure he knows what to do.”
Sinclair Dominion HQ | Top Floor Conference Room
The emergency meeting convened just after noon. Every major investor, executive advisor, and regional liaison filled the long, curved table beneath recessed lights that felt more interrogative than illuminating. The air held the scent of burnt coffee and tension. Around the room, holographic panels rotated headlines with phrases like:
BLACK HARROW UNMASKED
SINCLAIR DOMINION’S SECRET WEAPON EXPOSED
IS ANYONE SAFE?
Kristina stood just behind Lucian—close enough to be present, but never beside him. Her posture was controlled, unreadable, though the flick of her thumb against her palm betrayed the tension she refused to wear anywhere else.
Savannah Miller was already seated, legs crossed, her posture impeccable. She wore the expression of someone who had just won something quietly. When her eyes flicked toward Kristina, it was brief. Almost polite. But the satisfaction beneath it was unmistakable.
Lucian didn’t wait for introductions.
He stood at the head of the table, voice level but unyielding.
“Let me be clear. The individual known publicly as Black Harrow was indeed a contracted entity within Sinclair Dominion. She was brought in under my directive, for protection and executive security detail—not as an assassin, but as a shield.
Her name is Kristina Alonzo. And yes, I authorized her presence personally.
If you’re asking whether I knew who she was—yes. I did. And I trusted her to protect my life, and this company, without fail. She has. She still does.”
A wave of murmurs broke out. The room didn’t explode—at least not audibly—but the shift was immediate. Eyebrows rose. Laptops snapped open. Legal teams exchanged glances.
Savannah leaned forward with calculated precision, fingers steepled against her lips.
“So that’s the story now? The Black Harrow was just a bodyguard?”
She let the silence hang, then added, quieter but more cutting:
“You’re telling this room that every sanctioned kill was part of a protection detail?”
Her gaze flicked toward Kristina, cool and deliberate.
“Because I think we all know that’s not how the world will see it.”
Lucian didn’t flinch. He met Savannah’s words with calm finality.
“That isn’t just a story. That’s the truth.
Black Harrow was the assassin. Kristina Alonzo is my bodyguard.
What she did before I hired her—what she was sanctioned to do—was not under my command and not tied to Sinclair Dominion. But I brought her into this organization knowing exactly who she was. Because I trust her. Because I know she is not a threat—to me, to this company, or to anyone under our banner.
You want to question her past? Fine. But ask why those men were never stopped by your governments. Ask why she was needed in the first place.
Kristina Alonzo is not a liability. She’s the reason I’m still alive. She protects me—and now, she’s protected by me. By Sinclair Dominion.”
Savannah tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing with veiled contempt.
“That sounds like more than protection, Lucian.
Forgive me, but I think what many of us are wondering now is: Are your decisions still professional? Or are they compromised? A man doesn’t defend an assassin this fiercely unless there’s something else at play. We’ve seen how close she stands to you. We’ve seen how quick you are to answer for her.
Tell me—how far does that loyalty go?”
The air grew taut. A few heads turned. No one interrupted.
Lucian’s gaze didn’t move from Savannah’s.
“Whatever your assumption is—or whatever you’re trying to imply—is none of your business.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
But the message was clear.
And Kristina, still silent behind him, never looked away.
A silence hung in the air after Lucian’s final words—heavy, electric.
Then someone near the center of the table—an investor from the Munich branch—spoke, his voice sharp with skepticism.
“All due respect, Mr. Sinclair, but that’s a strong justification with no evidence. We’re supposed to believe she’s not a liability because you say so?”
Another executive added, “You’re staking this company’s reputation on an assassin’s moral compass. If you’re asking us to stand by this, we’ll need more than words.”
Savannah didn’t speak this time. She didn’t have to. Her smirk was enough.
Lucian stood tall, unflinching. As he tried to respond, the conference doors opened.
Maxim Thorne entered first, flanked by Harold Sinclair. Neither man looked rushed—but neither looked casual, either. Maxim carried a black case, slim and secure. Harold’s presence alone pulled attention; even the most senior advisors sat straighter.
Maxim walked to the head of the table, set the case down, and opened it with a soft click.
Then, looking at the room with the calm weight of a man used to storms, he said,
“You want proof?” He tapped the stack of sealed files inside. “Here’s your proof.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
“Read them... and weep.”
They asked for the truth. Now they have to live with it.
—To be continued.
