The Warning Shots

Michele’s POV

The gunshot echoed through the courtyard like a warning.

It was only one, but one was enough. My hand was already on the gun before the sound finished rolling through the walls. The camera feeds lit up across the screen, each flashing movement in the rain-soaked night.

“Section three,” Vico’s voice came through the radio, breathless. “We saw movement near the east wall.”

“I’m on my way,” I said.

I was already moving before he could answer.

The rain hit hard when I stepped outside. Cold and sharp. The ground was slick beneath my shoes. The lights from the mansion cast long silver reflections across the wet stone, turning everything into a blur of motion and noise.

Two guards met me at the stairs. Both were soaked, rifles raised.

“What do we have?” I asked.

“One figure, maybe two. We saw one drop near the fence after the shot.”

“Alive?”

“Not sure.”

I started walking toward the east wall. The rain fell harder, soaking through my shirt, but I barely felt it. My pulse had already settled into that steady rhythm it always found during chaos. The kind that made everything clearer, sharper.

Behind me, Vico caught up, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. “We checked the cameras. Someone cut the feed five minutes before the shot.”

“How?”

“Manual override. Inside job again, maybe.”

I didn’t answer.

We reached the narrow passage that led to the outer wall. The air there smelled like metal and rain. Water dripped from the edge of the roof in heavy drops.

I motioned for the guards to spread out. The beam from Vico’s flashlight cut through the dark, catching the wet gleam of mud, the crushed grass near the fence, and then something else — a body.

He was lying face down, half in the mud, half against the stone.

Vico crouched and turned him over carefully. The man’s face was pale, eyes open, rainwater pooling in his mouth. A bullet wound marked his chest.

“Dead,” Vico said quietly.

I crouched beside him. The man wore no insignia, but the equipment on his belt was military-grade. His gloves were soaked through. His pockets were empty, no ID, no tags.

“Who shot him?” I asked.

“One of the patrols near the gate,” Vico said. “They thought he was alone.”

I looked around. The rain blurred everything, but there were footprints leading away from the body — smaller, lighter.

“Not alone,” I said.

We followed the tracks along the wall. They led toward the far corner of the garden, where the lights didn’t reach. The shape of the mansion loomed behind us, its windows glowing faintly through the downpour.

Then I saw it.

Movement.

A figure running low, dressed in dark clothing, slipping between the trees near the old storage shed.

“There,” I said sharply.

The guards moved fast, spreading to cut him off. I took the path through the middle, ignoring the mud splashing under my steps.

The figure darted between the trees again, trying to lose us in the dark. But he wasn’t fast enough.

I caught him near the shed, grabbed the back of his jacket, and slammed him against the wall hard enough to knock the air out of him.

He struggled, kicking, but I pressed my forearm against his throat.

“Who sent you?” I asked.

He gasped, voice hoarse. “You don’t—”

I pushed harder. “Who sent you?”

He choked on the rain and spat blood. “You think you can stop what’s coming?”

I stared at him. His accent was faintly Eastern European. Croatian.

So Enzo had been right.

I eased off just enough for him to speak again. “You should have stayed out of it,” he said. “They already have what they need.”

“What do they have?”

He gave a broken smile. “You’ll see soon.”

Before I could ask another question, his hand jerked upward. I saw the small flash of metal too late — a knife, small and thin, hidden in his sleeve.

He slashed at me, grazing my side. I caught his wrist, twisted it, and slammed him against the wall again. The knife fell into the mud.

He tried to pull away, but I pinned him there, gun raised now.

“Tell me,” I said, my voice flat, calm. “What do they want from my house?”

He laughed weakly, blood mixing with rain on his lips. “Not your house. The one you keep inside it.”

My grip tightened. “Who?”

“The one you’re protecting,” he whispered. “The one who doesn’t belong.”

Erin.

The name hit my mind before he even said it.

I pressed the barrel of the gun under his chin. “You’re going to tell me what that means.”

But he didn’t.

He moved suddenly, violently, slamming his head forward. The blow was quick but strong enough to make me step back. He kicked at my leg and started to run.

“Stop him!” Vico shouted from behind.

Two shots rang out. The first missed. The second didn’t.

The man fell face-first into the mud.

By the time I reached him, he was already gone.

Vico knelt beside him, checking his pulse. “Dead.”

I looked down at the body. His expression was still twisted in that half-smile, half-grimace. His words echoed in my head.

The one you’re protecting. The one who doesn’t belong.

“Take him to the shed,” I said finally. “Search everything he had. Clothes, pockets, shoes. Bring me whatever you find.”

Vico nodded. “What about the house?”

“Keep everyone inside. Lock the gates. Double the posts on the east wall. No one leaves, no one enters.”

He started giving orders into his radio. The guards moved quickly, dragging the body through the rain. I turned toward the mansion again, my side stinging from where the knife had caught me.

The lights from the windows looked dim through the downpour. I could see the faint outline of the hallway upstairs. I knew Erin was there.

I pressed the radio again. “Enzo.”

“Here.”

“Get to the surveillance room. Tell me if any of the feeds were copied tonight.”

“Copied?”

“Check. Someone said they already have what they need.”

I walked back toward the stairs, my mind running faster than my feet.

If they wanted him, it meant they knew who he was. Or what he was. And if that was true, then this was no longer about me. It was about him.

By the time I reached the main hallway, Enzo’s voice came back through the radio.

“You were right,” he said. “There’s a data breach. Someone extracted files from the system about two hours ago.”

“What kind of files?”

“Security rotations. Camera feeds. And one personal record.”

My chest tightened. “Whose record?”

A pause. Then Enzo’s voice, lower. “The nanny’s.”

I stopped walking. Rainwater dripped from my clothes onto the marble floor. The cold settled deep into my bones.

“Where were those files stored?”

“Private archive, under your authorization.”

My authorization.

Someone had used my clearance.

“Find out how they did it,” I said, my voice sharp now. “And wipe the entire system if you have to.”

“Yes, boss.”

I ended the call and took a deep breath, forcing my thoughts into order.

Erin was still upstairs, waiting, probably scared. He had no idea what had just happened outside. And for now, I wanted to keep it that way.

I climbed the stairs slowly, my hand pressing against the cut on my side. The blood had already started to dry, the pain dull but constant.

When I reached the corridor leading to his room, two guards stood there.

“All clear?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. We heard the shot, but nothing came this way.”

“Good. Stay here.”

I went to his door and pressed the intercom.

“It’s me,” I said. “Open the door.”

A few seconds later, the lock turned.

Erin stood there, barefoot, eyes wide and tired. His voice came out small. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The room smelled faintly of rain and fear. “Did you hear it?”

“The gunshot? Yes.”

“It’s handled.”

He looked at me, searching for something in my face. “Handled how?”

I hesitated. “Someone tried to come over the wall again. They didn’t get far.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No one who matters.”

His eyes flickered toward the window. “Were they after you?”

I looked at him for a moment before answering. “Not me.”

He frowned. “Then who?”

“Go back to bed,” I said quietly. “It’s over.”

But he didn’t move. “You’re bleeding,” he said, pointing at my side.

I looked down. The dark stain on my shirt had spread more than I thought.

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

He stepped closer before I could stop him, reaching for the edge of the fabric. His hand brushed my side lightly, his eyes focused, careful. “Sit,” he said, voice low.

For some reason, I did.

He disappeared into the bathroom for a second and came back with a towel and a small first-aid kit. He knelt in front of me, eyes narrowed in concentration as he pressed the cloth gently against the cut.

I watched him work in silence. The room was quiet except for the rain outside and his steady breathing.

When he finally looked up, his eyes met mine. “You should let someone look at it properly.”

“I’ll live.”

He gave a small, tired smile. “You always say that, don’t you?”

“Because it’s always true.”

He sat back on his heels, still holding the towel. For a moment, we just looked at each other.

There was something in his eyes I couldn’t name — worry, maybe. Or something deeper.

“You should rest,” I said.

He shook his head. “I won’t sleep anyway.”

I almost said something, but then I stopped.

There would be time for that later. Right now, I needed to think. I needed to figure out how they got my clearance, who was feeding them information, and why they wanted Erin.

I stood, ignoring the pull of pain in my side. “Lock the door behind me.”

He looked up quickly. “Where are you going?”

“To finish what I started.”

He stood too. “Michele—”

“Do as I say.”