Page 81 of Jayson
“Thermal grid here.”
“Pressure mesh over this trench.”
“Smart cams up the cedar line—facial recog in real time.”
Saxon turns to me. “Any inside staff you don’t trust?”
“Only people in this house are family,” I say, then add, “I want them safe.”
He grunts. “We’ll run background anyway. Even Grandma.”
“Nina will gut you herself if she catches you digging.”
Saxon almost smiles. “I look forward to the challenge.”
By noon,the estate looks like a battlefield paused on the inhale—quiet, but ready to detonate.
Cameras now blink from high branches, their lenses sweeping the grounds like watchful eyes. Infrared. Night vision. Motion-sensitive. A predator’s dream, or a trespasser’s worst nightmare. Along the inner perimeter, bright orange signs have been staked every twenty feet, each stamped with a single threat in bold black font:
WARNING: CLAYMORES ARMED. DO NOT STEP FURTHER.
The mines are fake. But the terror they stir? That part’s very real.
Saxon’s men move with practiced precision—tall, scarred, unbothered by the chill that’s settled into the soil. They communicate with nods and brief murmurs through comms. Not a smile among them. No bravado. These men weren’t hired for muscle—they’re killers turned sentinels. Ghosts in black, locked and loaded, each of them placed with strategic intent. Like chess pieces. Not pawns. Knights and rooks. Protecting the king.
From my perch on the east wing balcony, I watch as the last drone lifts off the helipad near the orchard—its rotors cut the air with a high-pitched whine, then settle into a buzz as it arcs skyward. It’s smaller than my palm but sees farther than any man could, eyes in the sky that feed straight into Saxon’s encrypted surveillance grid.
For the first time since last night when I spotted that shadow near the cedars, my pulse begins to slow. Just a fraction. Just enough to feel the tightness in my chest start to ease.
But I don’t let it go completely.
Because the bastard who stepped foot on my land without setting off a single alarm? He knew what he was doing. That wasn’t a test. It was a message.
And if he’s stupid enough to come back? He’ll learn the difference between trespassing… and suicide.
33
KEIRA
Nina thinks shopping will distract me.
Bless her optimism.
She ushers me into the back of the Bentley like I’m some delicate, breakable thing that just needs a bit of silk and retail air to fix what’s broken. I don’t argue. It’s easier that way. I nod, smile when prompted, let her believe I’m playing along. But my thoughts haven’t been off Riley since the detectives walked out the door.
My father’s been missing for two days, and suddenly the cops care what happened to her. Convenient timing. Convenient questions.
And too many of them are aimed at me.
The boutique is high-end, of course. Sforza Couture. All soft lighting and hushed voices, like a church that worships money. Dresses that cost more than most people’s rent hang on chrome racks like offerings. Nina’s in her element, murmuring with the tailor, hands trailing over silk and velvet like she’s composing a symphony.
Lionel posts up near the entrance—silent, alert. He’s not thetype to blink, let alone get distracted. Which makes what I’m about to do extremely stupid. But necessary.
I step into the change room with a handful of dresses and a hollow smile. The curtain is drawn but all I notice is how gleaming the mirror is. It’s immaculate. The moment I hear the sales ladies’s voice recede down the hall, my heart kicks into gear.
I count thirty seconds, then duck low before I slip out the side of the cubicle and down the staff hallway. I exit the back entrance of the boutique like a ghost—hoodie up, bag clutched tight, heart pounding like I’ve just pulled off a heist instead of a getaway. The city blinks under a dull overcast sky, as though holding its breath.
Sorry, Nina.
