Armored SUVs skidded to a halt, disgorging teams of heavily armed security personnel.
But as they fanned out to secure the area, Brandon couldn't shake the unsettling realization that the precision, the calculated lethality he'd just exhibited—it wasn't new to him.
It was part of this new body of his, buried deep, now resurfacing in the heat of battle.
The security team swarmed the area, their movements precise and efficient, but the scene blurred at the edges of Brandon's vision.
He lowered the assault rifle, his hands trembling uncontrollably as the adrenaline that had fueled him ebbed away, leaving a cold, hollow ache in its wake.
"Area secure, sir," a burly man in tactical gear reported, his voice crisp and professional.
"Are you injured?"
Brandon opened his mouth, intending to bark out a scolding "ABOUT FUCKING TIME!" but the words caught in his throat, strangled by the sudden wave of nausea that rolled over him.
The world tilted, the ground lurching beneath his feet, and he stumbled, barely catching himself.
"We need a medic over here!" the man barked into his radio, urgency creeping into his tone as he reached out to steady Brandon.
Another security officer approached, her gaze sweeping over the carnage with clinical detachment.
"Looks like our boy's got some skills," she remarked, a hint of surprise in her voice.
"Focus on the extraction," the first man snapped, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Brandon's deteriorating condition.
"We need to get the VIPs out of that wreck ASAP."
Brandon tried to focus on their words, but the scene around him blurred further, the edges of his vision darkening. He watched through a haze as the team converged on the overturned limo, their voices becoming a distant, muffled hum.
"Careful with that door, it's unstable."
"I've got a pulse on Gordon. He's alive, but unconscious."
"The girls are here. Looks like minor injuries, but we need to move carefully."
Brandon's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as pain surged through his body, sharp and relentless.
His legs buckled beneath him, and he swayed, the rifle slipping from his grasp, clattering to the ground.
He tried to take a step toward the limo, desperate to see for himself that Elise and Bailey were okay, but his body betrayed him.
His knees gave out, and he crumpled to the ground, the cold, hard surface rushing up to meet him.
As he fell, his vision tunneled, the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the blurred image of Gordon being carefully extracted from the driver's seat, followed by the limp forms of Bailey and Elise.
Then, darkness claimed him.
[ Blackstone Manor— Victor's Office ]
Victor Blackstone sat in his dimly lit office, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the room.
The grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily, marking the late hour.
He leaned back in his leather chair, a tumbler of scotch within reach, as he picked up the secure phone on his desk.
"It's done," he said, his voice low and controlled.
"The package has been delivered."
A pause as he listened to the response.
"Yes, I'm aware of the potential fallout. We've accounted for it." Another sip of scotch.
"The board will convene at dawn. Ensure your pieces are in place."
Victor's eyes narrowed as he listened to the voice on the other end.
"No, we can't afford any loose ends. Clean it up, and do it quietly." He drummed his fingers on the desk.
"The Summit is in three days. We need this wrapped up before then."
He ended the call and immediately dialed another number.
"Status report," he demanded without preamble.
Victor's jaw tightened as he listened to the update.
"Unacceptable. I don't care what it takes. Get it done."
His voice carried a hint of steel.
"And make sure our friends in the Middle-East understand the consequences of non-compliance."
He hung up and swirled the scotch in his glass, lost in thought for a moment.
Arthur's calm voice sliced through the silence of the home office.
"Sir, there's been an attempt on Young Master Brandon and Young Lady Bailey's lives."
Victor's heart clenched.
"Are they—"
"They're safe, sir," Arthur assured quickly.
"The threat has been neutralized. Our security teams responded swiftly and effectively."
Victor sagged into his chair, relief washing over him.
"Thank God," he muttered.
"What happened?"
"A coordinated attack, sir. Multiple vehicles, well-armed assailants. It appears they were waiting to ambush the limousine after the gala."
Victor's eyes narrowed.
"And the mastermind?"
"We're investigating, but..." Arthur hesitated.
"If I may, sir, the Sinclairs seem the most likely candidates. Young Master Brandon's confrontation with them at the gala—"
"No," Victor cut him off.
"The Sinclairs wouldn't dare. They're not the power they once were."
"With respect, sir, their recent losses might make them desperate."
Victor shook his head.
"They know better than to challenge me so openly. This reeks of someone else..."
"Who do you suspect, sir?"
Victor's fingers drummed on his desk.
"I'm not sure yet. But whoever it is, they've made a grave mistake. No one threatens my family and lives to tell about it."
Victor's brow furrowed as he contemplated the situation. He turned to Arthur, his voice low and measured.
"What about the incident at his high school? Any new leads?"
Arthur's face remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.
"I'm afraid not, sir. Our investigations have hit a dead end. Besides the nearly undetectable chemical traces found in Young Master Brandon's blood when he was first admitted to the hospital, there are no other clues."
Victor's fingers tightened around his glass.
"And the Donoghue boy?"
"It appears he acted on his own accord, sir. Everything was planned flawlessly, no traces."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Victor's mind raced, considering possibilities he'd hoped to never revisit.
"Could it be our enemies from the East?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Brandon's mission... has he regained his memories?"
Arthur shook his head, his expression grave.
"Young Master Brandon only has fragments of his memory, sir. As for the Chinese, they'd have no real motive for taking out the Young Master at this point."
Victor leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of contemplation.
The pieces didn't fit, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
"Keep digging, Arthur. Someone went to great lengths to make this look like a simple bullying incident gone wrong. I want to know who, and why."