Ten: Hold the Line

Ten: Hold the Line

Treyvan POV

I waited until the soft click of Cecilia’s door echoed down the hall, the sound final like a lock snapping into place. She was safe in there, oblivious to the shadows creeping closer. Free to chase her dreams of Stanford and saving the world. No worries or fears. My little sister, always the light in this godforsaken house.

I lingered a beat longer, ear pressed to the wood just to catch the faint rustle of her settling in, then turned away, my gut twisting tighter than a coiled spring. The phone burned in my pocket, that damn message from Dad nagging at me like an itch I could not scratch. I had glimpsed it earlier during our game, right when Cici was raking in the pretzel pot, but with her laughter filling the room, I had shoved it aside.

Now, alone in the dim corridor lit by the low glow of wall sconces, I pulled it out. The screen lit up my face in cold blue, and there it was, timestamped about 20 minutes ago.

Storm hit, house knows. Deck was rigged. Lockdown. Protect the pearl. Hold the line.

It was Dad’s code, straight out of the old lessons he had drilled into me during those late night talks in the garage, away from prying eyes. No names, no specifics. Just enough to light a fire under my ass.

I translated the shorthand in my head. "Storm" meant Zacian. "House knows" meant the enemy was listening. "Deck was rigged" meant he had found a wire, a betrayal. And the "Pearl"? That was Cici. Always had been.

My blood ran hot, then cold. Someone had overheard him, pieced together the wrong threads. I had seen the jitter in him all evening, the way his fork scraped the plate too hard, his eyes darting to the windows like ghosts were knocking. Something was unraveling, and he had left me to stitch it back.

I was not a full member of the inner circle yet, not officially sworn in or given the rank to lead, but Dad had trained me since I could walk. Protocol burned into my bones: Protect Cici above all else. If he vanished into the night for good, we ran, grabbed the go bag from the basement and melted into the desert lines. But this? He was still out there, circling back. That meant lockdown. No chances.

My feet moved on autopilot, carrying me down the polished oak stairs to the study. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in like a held breath. Staff would be winding down. Octavia in the kitchen, the night guard doing his rounds outside. I would handle them after.

The painting hung there, unassuming. A landscape of the old Nevada hills Mom used to love, all dusty reds and endless sky. I swung it aside on silent hinges, revealing the safe. My fingers punched the code, her birthday, always. The door popped open with a soft hiss.

Inside, the Walther PPK waited, matte black and heavy with promise. I checked the mag, racked the slide to chamber a round, and tucked it into my waistband, the cool metal kissing my skin like a secret.

First things, the house. I moved fast, methodically, flipping locks on every door, front, back, the French panes off the patio that overlooked the pool. The estate was a fortress on paper, high walls and cameras Dad had installed after Mom, but paper tore easy. I punched in the override on the security panel, arming the full perimeter. Alarms silent unless breached.

Kitchen next. Octavia was wiping down counters, her back to me.

"Lock it down," I said low, voice steady. "No one in or out till morning. Tell the others, eyes open, mouths shut."

She nodded, no questions. She had been with us since Cici was in diapers, knew the drill without the words.

Outside, I caught the guard on his circuit, a burly guy named Jax with a scar across his knuckles.

"Double the watch," I ordered. "Anything moves that ain't us, you light it up."

He grunted affirmation, tapping his earpiece as he relayed the order to the team. The night air hit me sharp, carrying the distant hum of the city, but up here in the hills, it felt isolated. Vulnerable.

Back inside, I killed the main lights, sticking to shadows. The house settled around me, creaks and sighs masking any real threat. I posted up in the foyer, back to the wall, hand resting near the Walther. Minutes stretched, my pulse a steady thrum. Dad would call soon, explain the mess. We would laugh it off over breakfast, Cici teasing me about burning the eggs from our wager.

Then it came. Not a crash or a shout, but a whisper of wrongness, a faint scrape at the side door like fabric on wood. My body tensed, senses sharpening to a razor edge. The cameras? I glanced at the monitor by the stairs, nothing but empty feed. Pros, then. Slipping through the blind spots.

I ghosted toward the sound, the Walther PPK raised and steady in a two handed grip, breath held in my lungs to silence even the smallest rustle of clothes. I moved the way Dad had taught me, weight on the balls of my feet, a phantom in my own home. The lock on the side door was still engaged, but the deadbolt had been bypassed with a slim shim, a dark sliver of metal glinting in the moonlight. They were good. Too good.

A shadow shifted beyond the glass pane. I dropped to a crouch, blending into the darkness of the stairwell. The door eased open with a silence that terrified me. No squeak, no click. Just the sudden rush of cool night air and the smell of gun oil and leather.

One figure entered, then another. They moved like smoke, dark suits absorbing the light, suppressed pistols held in high ready positions. They were not here to rob us. Robbers made noise. These men moved with the precision of a surgical strike. They were hunting.

I had the element of surprise, but only for a heartbeat. I needed to make it count.

The first man cleared the door frame, scanning the foyer. I waited until he passed my pillar, exposing his flank. I stepped out, the Walther extending in a smooth fluid motion. Two shots to the thoracic cavity, just like the drills. The suppressor coughed, barely a whisper. He jerked, went rigid, and collapsed without a grunt.

But the second man was faster than a professional should be. He did not panic. He spun toward the muzzle flash, moving with a fluidity that spoke of elite training. He fired blindly, a stream of suppressed rounds stitching up the wall where I had been a millisecond before. I dove behind the heavy oak console, splinters showering my face as wood exploded.

I popped up, firing on the move. One round clipped his shoulder, spinning him, but he did not drop. He switched to a knife, closing the distance with terrifying speed. This was not a standoff anymore. It was a kill box.

He lunged, the blade aiming for my neck. I parried with the gun, the metal of the slide sparking against the steel of the knife. The impact jarred my wrist, numbing my fingers. He was strong, inhumanly so, using his momentum to drive me back against the banister.

We crashed together, a tangle of struggling limbs and gasping breaths. I slammed my forehead into his nose, feeling cartilage shatter, but he barely flinched. He was a machine, programmed to eliminate the threat. Me.

I managed to wedge the Walther against his ribs and pulled the trigger. The muzzle blast muffled against his body, a dull thud. He stiffened, the light leaving his eyes, and slumped to the floor, dead weight.

I scrambled back, gasping for air, wiping blood from my eyes. Two down. But the silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with dread.

A heavy footstep vibrated through the floorboards. Not from the door. From the study.

I spun around, but I was too slow. A massive shape filled the doorway, a silhouette of brute force. He did not have a rifle. He held a telescopic baton, already extended. He moved with a heavy, confident gait, expecting to find two subordinates and a dead kid.

Instead, he found me standing, chest heaving, Walther leveled at his chest.

He froze, a split second of hesitation. He had not expected the resistance. He had not expected the skill.

I did not give him time to recover. I lunged, driving my shoulder into his solar plexus. We crashed into the study wall, pictures rattling. The baton fell from his hand, skittering across the floor. We grappled, wrestling for control. He was bigger, a mountain of muscle, but I was fueled by adrenaline and desperation.

I got inside his guard, slipping an arm around his neck to try and choke him out. He roared, a sound of pure frustration, and slammed me backward into the desk. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but I held on. I would not let him get to Cici.

He thrashed, his hand flailing blindly, and caught me in the throat. A crushing grip closed around my windpipe, cutting off my air instantly. My vision sparked, black dots exploding across my sightline.

I needed an endgame. Now.

With the last of my strength, I ripped my arm free and jammed the Walther upward, hard. The muzzle pressed against the soft flesh under his jaw, right where the pulse beats strongest.

I had him. Checkmate.

His eyes went wide, the mask hiding his expression but not the sudden, rigid terror. He realized he had underestimated me. He realized he was dying.

"Drop it," I wheezed, voice barely a whisper.

He froze. For a second, I thought he would surrender. Then I felt it. A subtle shift in his weight. A desperate, panicked twitch of his wrist.

He did not go for the baton. He went for a hidden pocket at his belt.

Time seemed to warp, slowing down to a crawl. I saw the snub nosed revolver appear, a sleek, silver shadow in the dim light. He did not aim. He just pointed and pulled the trigger in a blind spasm of fear.

The shot was deafening in the small room, an explosion of sound that tore through the quiet. I felt a wet heat blossom in my chest, a sledgehammer blow that knocked the breath from my lungs. My grip on the Walther faltered, the gun slipping from my fingers.

The big man shoved me away, scrambling back, his chest heaving. He looked at me, then at the gun in his hand, his face twisting in shock. He stared at the smoking barrel, then at my chest, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. It looked like his actions were an accident, a desperate reaction to the gun I had pressed under his chin. Like he had just wanted to neutralize the threat I posed. As if he had not meant to kill.

I hit the floor, the impact distant and dull. The pain was gone, replaced by a profound coldness. I tried to inhale, but my throat was crushed, and my chest felt like it was filled with liquid concrete.

The big man stood over me for a moment, debating, then turned and melted back into the shadows. I could tell he was fleeing, leaving the silence broken and my body behind.

I lay there, staring up at the ceiling. The darkness was rushing in now, faster and thicker. I could not hear the house anymore. I could not hear anything.

Except for the light. Under Cici’s door, it was still glowing. A soft, yellow strip in the hallway.

I had held the line.

For her.