Todos os capítulos de DIVORCED Back To Claim What’s Mine : Capítulo 221 - Capítulo 230

The thunder that followed shook the high rise towers of Fifth Avenue to their foundations, but inside the command center of the Hawthorne penthouse, the only sound was the cold, monotonous hum of eighty high definition security monitors.The night before the gala, Tyler sits inside his tactical control room surrounded by surveillance screens.He sat motionless in a heavy leather chair, his broad frame cast in the blue and-amber glow of the satellite feeds. His dark eyes flickered from one monitor to the next with relentless, terrifying focus. On one screen, Marcus’s tactical team patrolled the stone steps of the Met under heavy rain. On another, infrared thermal sensors scanned the dense tree lines of Central Park. On a third, Sarah’s automated facial-recognition algorithms processed thousands of pedestrian biometrics across a twelve-block radius.Tyler had not slept in three days. The dark purple shadows beneath his eyes were stark against his pale skin, his jaw set into a rigid bloc

The high voltage security alarm screamed in Lydia’s ears, but it existed only inside her mind.Outside the subterranean loading bay of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the torrential rain lashed against the concrete ramp, washing grease and dirt into the storm drains. Sirens wailed softly in the distance along Fifth Avenue. Flashing red and blue police lights swept across the armored transport vans lined up beneath the heavy stone arches.Lydia enters the museum disguised as a catering employee.She stepped off the back of a silver catering truck wearing a crisp black service vest, black trousers, and non-slip work shoes. Her short, dark hair was tucked tightly beneath a plain black hairnet, and a white cotton apron was tied snugly around her waist. She carried herself with the slightly slumped, exhausted posture of an overworked line server earning minimum wage.Her heart did not race. Her hands did not shake. The cold, sociopathic numbness that had taken root inside her soul in Montr

BANG!The shot explodes through the ballroom.A sound like thunder splitting solid granite tore through the vaulted expanse of the Great Hall, instantly drowning out the thunderous applause of four hundred world leaders.The heavy, supersonic crack of the armor-piercing tungsten round traveling at three thousand feet per second shattered the air overhead, sending a concussive shockwave rippling across the crystal chandeliers.Tyler reacts before anyone else.Where ordinary men froze in confusion, Tyler moved before the muzzle flash even faded into the dusty darkness of the high catwalks. His combat instincts, forged through years of bloodshed and covert warfare, overrode human thought. He didn't look up. He didn't search for the reticle. In the exact microsecond his eyes caught the tiny green reflection of the rifle optic glinting off the high stone archway forty feet above, his body moved on pure, instinctual devotion.He throws himself across Elara, shielding her as the bullet strik

"CODE RED IN OPERATING ROOM 4! HE'S GOING INTO VENTRICULAR FIBRILLATION!"The frantic scream of a surgical nurse shattered the air behind the heavy double doors, immediately swallowed by the flatline tone of a heart monitor shrieking in high-pitched, continuous panic.BEEEEEEEEEP."CHARGE TO TWO HUNDRED! CLEAR!"Elara’s palms slammed against the reinforced glass panel of the surgical suite. She watched in paralyzing horror as a trauma surgeon raised the defibrillator paddles over Tyler’s bare, bloodied chest. His body jolted violently off the operating table under the electric charge, snapping back down against the metal frame like a broken marionette."AGAIN! CHARGE TO THREE HUNDRED! CLEAR!""No... no, no, no!" Elara gasped, her breath clouding the glass. She hammered her fist against the door, her voice choking into a raspy, desperate sob. "Tyler! Fight! You fight, damn you!""Ma'am, step back!" A hospital security guard placed his broad hands on her shoulders, physically pulling he

As the telephoto camera lens smashed directly into the side mirror of an incoming security vehicle, the glass shattering with a sharp, violent crack!"BACK UP! MOVE THE BARRICADES BACK!" an officer screamed through a screeching megaphone, his voice instantly swallowed by the roaring mob of three hundred reporters, paparazzi, and broadcast crews laying siege to the wrought-iron gates of the upstate Hawthorne estate.Dawn had barely broken over New York, but the peaceful morning mist had been violently incinerated by the blinding flash of hundreds of strobe lights and the deafening, thundering beat of news helicopters hovering overhead like mechanical vultures.Satellite trucks lined the narrow estate road for two miles. Telephoto lenses as long as sniper rifles were aimed over the twelve foot stone walls, tracking every shadow that moved behind the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows of the main house.Inside the grand study, three television screens mounted on the mahogany wall were