Julian did not move until the siren-less police sedan was halfway down the perimeter road. He barely noticed Vance's two uniformed officers quietly installing surveillance hardware near the gatehouse.
Outside the main gate, Vance spoke quietly into the radio mic pinned to his shoulder. He glanced into his rearview mirror, ensuring the security detail soldier seated in the passenger seat was attentive.
"Did you note the plate number on the black sedan?" Vance asked, his voice neutral.
"Yes, sir," the soldier replied immediately. "Plate confirmed: C-11-209-E. Registered to a shell corporation dissolved three weeks ago."
Vance let out a slow breath, his expression hardening. "Good. Put the new surveillance team on high alert. That car is not a mistake. Valemont isn't just facing a leak anymore. He has a contract on his head. We contain him now, or we manage a state funeral."
The soldier nodded, reaching for his own comms unit.
As the police sedan pulled away, the black sedan, C-11-209-E, pulled silently into motion, melting into the evening traffic. The assassination attempt had officially begun.
The Valemont estate transformed from a sanctuary into a luxurious cage. Julian Valemont maintained the meticulous schedule of the Chief Strategist, conducting his business from the library. The light was precise, the papers stacked geometrically, and the video calls were taken with the same detached, surgical focus. But now, every exit was guarded by the silent, omnipresent Protective Security Detail (PSD), a constant, abrasive insult to his sovereignty. Their uniforms were a blunt, unwanted presence in the austere elegance of his home.
While Julian was physically paralyzed, Anya Petrova moved with the precision of a clockwork mechanism. She spent days submerged in the cold glow of her terminals, sifting through millions of network logs, data packets, and communication timestamps.
She became a ghost of the system, traveling only when necessary—a quick, authorized visit to a public archive, a brief meeting with a controlled contact—always under the heavy, watchful eyes of the PSD agents who saw her as a dangerous extension of their principal. Anya's diligence was relentless, fueled by a singular, intense loyalty; Julian's pride in her capability was absolute, one of the few truths his ego allowed.
A full week passed under this strained quiet. The surveillance was fixed, the external threat remained a silent variable, and the internal betrayal still hemorrhaged data.
Finally, Anya stepped away from her terminal, holding a secured tablet. Julian was at his desk, reviewing classified project schematics. He did not look up, but he registered the change in her posture—the shift from analysis to presentation.
"Anya. Results?"
"The anomaly is confirmed, sir. One contact point, one perpetrator,"
Anya reported, her voice clear and without judgment.
"The traitor is Director Evelyn Thorne of the Logistics & Transport Division. The leak was not a simple file transfer; it was a scheduled, encrypted dump of low-priority traffic designed to mask the extraction of the Armory Protocol."
Julian placed his stylus down, the movement slow and deliberate. "How was the data extracted?
Thorne's terminals are hard-lined to the mainframe. No wireless capability is authorized."
"The physical line was sound. The extraction occurred after the data had left our secure servers, sir,"
Anya clarified, pulling up a complex topological map on the tablet.
"Thorne was exploiting an old, decommissioned routing loop—an administrative oversight—which allowed her to inject the data into a high-capacity, non-regulated uplink. The channel is fully shielded from state monitoring."
Julian stared at the screen, his mind already calculating the tactical significance.
"The location of this uplink."
Anya pointed to the map. "The signal trace ends at a single, dense point of energy consumption within the Red-Light Area's central district. It is the Shadow Cartel's main extraction point. They built a dedicated pipe to siphon the results."
(The RLA.) Julian's internal thought was immediate, linking the location of the leak to the memory of the woman who held his debt.
(The chaos I must dominate. I met the only untethered element there. This is not coincidence—it is a confrontation fate is demanding.)
Julian rose from his chair, walking to the panoramic window and staring out at the perimeter where the PSD vehicles were permanently stationed. He was caged, but his strategic purpose had just clarified.
He turned back to Anya, his decision hardening into a pure strategic thrust.
"The surveillance means I cannot move. That location is our vital center of operations. Anya, there was a woman I met in the RLA. She not only saved my life, but she knew my identity. A chaotic element with knowledge of the Chief Strategist, operating exactly where the Cartel established its uplink. I doubt she could be a part of this, but her existence is an unacceptable vulnerability."
He paused, his voice dropping in cold fury.
"And the worst thing, I owe her a debt."
He picked up his secure phone, the one he had used to send the coded signal a week prior.
"You will track the response to that signal. You are not going to pay a debt, Anya. You are going to negotiate immediate control of that vulnerability. Find the woman. Buy her silence, her cooperation, or her turf. Do whatever is necessary to secure that foothold. And Anya, conduct the meeting exclusively in the daylight.