Novel-novel oleh Tina Taran

Debugging the SequenceThe black screen holding Jonathan Bryce’s declaration glowed like a tombstone in the dark War Room. The silence it left behind was not of shock, but of a terrible, clarifying focus. The enemy had a name, a face, and a motive that was at once insane and horribly logical.William was the first to move, a surge of protective fury overriding the chill. “We hit him now. We freeze every asset in the Foundation, deploy security to every known address, his home, his offices, the Swiss chalet if he’s there with my father. We turn his world into a prison and squeeze him out.”“No.”Mimi’s voice was quiet but absolute. She was still staring at the screen, but her eyes were alive, calculating. She turned to him, and he saw no fear in her gaze, only the cold, sharp light of a strategist assessing a flawed algorithm.“He’s a systems architect, William. He’s built his entire life around predicting responses. Brute force lawyers, lockdowns, sieges, that’s the expected error-han

The Bloodline BetrayalThe silence in the secure office was absolute, a vacuum that seemed to suck the air from the room. The triumphant glow of the gala was a distant, m ocking memory, extinguished by the cold data in Viktor Strom’s file. All eyes were locked on Evelyn Williams.She stood perfectly still, a statue in couture, but William saw the minute tremor in the hand that rested on the back of the chair. Her face, usually a masterpiece of composed authority, had paled, the carefully applied blush standing out in two stark circles. The accusation hung in the air, unspoken but deafening.It was Evelyn who shattered the silence. She did not weep, nor protest with hysterics. Her voice, when it came, was low, measured, and carried the sharp edge of a scalpel.“I did not authorize this.”She reached out, her movements deliberate, and turned the file to face her. Her eyes scanned the lines detailing the payment authorizations from the Family Foundation’s discretionary fund. “This fund

The InvitationPanic, they had decided, was a luxury for people who still believed in safe ground. In the West Wing study, surrounded by the ghost’s digital taunt, the Quartet operated with the grim focus of surgeons after a bomb blast.“We cancel,” William said, the words torn from him. “We cite a security concern. It’s the only sane move.”“It’s the losing move,” Mimi countered, her voice like chilled glass. She stood at the data wall, the offending guest list entry highlighted. “Canceling tells him his intimidation works. It surrenders the narrative shield before we even raise it. It makes us prisoners in our own story.” She turned, her gaze sweeping over them. “Viktor Strom isn’t just a threat he’s thrown at us. He’s a piece on the board. We take it.”“You want to invite a disgraced, vengeance-obsessed mercenary to an event celebrating our child?” William’s voice was hoarse with disbelief.“I want to control the variable,” Mimi stated. “Evelyn, can you reach him?”Evelyn, who had

The StakesThe silence in the study after the call ended was not empty. It was a vacuum, sucking in all sound and leaving behind a pressure that made ears pop. William broke it first, a violent motion as he grabbed his phone again, his thumb stabbing at the screen.“Hassan, I want a full tactical team at the estate in ten minutes. Prepare the coastal safe house. We’re moving”“No.”Mimi’s voice was not loud. It was flat, final, and cut through his panic like a scalpel. He turned to her. He expected to see fear, the vulnerability he’d seen in Geneva. What he saw instead chilled the rage in his veins.Her face was pale, but utterly still. Her eyes, usually so expressive in their intelligence or fury, had gone dark and opaque, like polished stones. The hand resting over her stomach wasn’t a tremulous gesture of protection; it was a claim, a demarcation of the territory that had been threatened. This was beyond the “Nigerian Flair.” This was something primordial.“Running is what he wants

The GhostThe West Wing study had been transformed. The air, once thick with marital tension and private grief, now hummed with a different, more volatile energy the focused, precarious synergy of the Triad.Mimi stood at the main data wall, her fingers flying across a keyboard, pulling up estate access logs, Sentinel Shield contracts, and communication records. Her face was a mask of concentration, the CSIO in full command. William was stationed at the antique desk, his phone glued to his ear, his voice a low, relentless pressure as he legally leaned on Sentinel Shield’s corporate leadership in Geneva, demanding full transparency in a “routine post-Thorne audit.” His authority provided the legitimate, noisy cover.And Kunle, perched on the edge of a low leather sofa, was a world apart. His sleek, encrypted laptop was open, its screen a cascade of code and dark-web dashboard interfaces that looked alien to the opulent room. He wore a headset, murmuring in a mix of English and tech jar

The TriadThe silence in the West Wing study after Evelyn’s departure was a physical thing, thick and suffocating. William stood frozen, the name Kunle had uttered moments before still hanging in the air like gun smoke.“Kunle,” he repeated, the word a death sentence. He turned to Mimi, his face a mask of icy, devastated fury. He picked up the tablet holding the forensic report and thrust it toward her. “The signal logs. The encrypted payments from a Thorne-linked shell company. The metadata trail. It’s all him. He was the leak. He sold your fatigue, your schedule, the most intimate details of our lives.” A horrible, fractured laugh escaped him. “He played us. From the very beginning. The charming ally, the supportive friend… it was all a cover. He was Thorne’s inside man.”Mimi took the tablet, her mind already partitioning itself, the emotional shock in one compartment, the analytical CSIO in another taking over. She scanned the data. It was damning. Cleanly compiled, the digital fi