Page 78 of The Viper
For now, I let the exhaustion pull me under, holding on to the sound of his voice in the next room and the quiet promises he’d made.
26
LUCAS
Noah's office was all dark wood and shadows, the kind of room built for secrets. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the harbor, but at this hour—just past dawn—the view was more gray than anything else. He sat behind a massive desk, fingers steepled, eyes sharp despite the early hour. The man didn't sleep much, I'd learned. Probably didn't need to.
I dropped into the leather chair across from him and pulled the note from my pocket. I'd kept it, even though every instinct said to burn it. Evidence mattered, even when you didn't know what you were dealing with.
I slid it across the desk. "New York. Old man with a cane. Eastern European accent. Handed this to me and disappeared."
Noah picked up the card, read it once, then again. His jaw tightened, but he didn't look surprised. He set it down carefully, like it might explode if handled wrong.
"Welcome to the real war," he read aloud, his voice flat. "That's bold."
"You've seen this before?"
"Not exactly." He leaned back, the chair creaking under him. "But we've been tracking movement. Shadows, mostly. Someone's been poking around Dominion Hall's operations—probing security, testing responses, then vanishing before we can pin them down."
I felt my pulse kick up a notch. "How long?"
"Couple months. It all started when we brought the first of you Montana Danes in. Nothing major, just enough to send a message."
"What kind of message?"
"That they can reach us." He picked up the card again, turning it over in his hands. "This? This is different. They're not just watching anymore. They're introducing themselves."
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "Who the hell are they?"
"That's the problem," Noah said, his frustration bleeding through. "We don't know. They're good—better than good. They move like ghosts. No patterns, no signatures, nothing we can use to track them. It's like fighting smoke."
"What do they want?"
"That's the other problem." He set the card down, meeting my eyes. "We don't know that either. No demands, no clear objective. They're just ... there. Testing us. Watching. Waiting."
I rubbed the back of my neck, the tension coiling tighter. "The wording of the note—'welcome to the real war'—that sounds like escalation."
"It is," Noah agreed. "They've been playing in the shallow end. This? This is them wading deeper."
I thought about the timeline, trying to piece it together. "The paparazzi at the Kiawah house. The drone. Could that have been them?"
Noah considered it. "Possible. But that felt more opportunistic. Someone looking for a quick payout."
"The SUV at the café, then. Two men, just sitting there. Watching."
His eyes sharpened. "That's more their style. Visible but untouchable. Making you feel watched without giving you a target. But it feels too obvious."
I felt the puzzle pieces shifting, trying to find a pattern that made sense. "So, we've got paparazzi, a surveillance team, and an old man delivering threats. Could all be connected. Could all be random."
"Or," Noah said slowly, "it could be a mix. Real threats buried under noise. That's what makes them dangerous—we can't tell signal from static."
"Which means we're blind. So, why me?"
He turned, his expression grim. "Because you're the newest piece on the board. They're testing you. Seeing how you react."
I didn't like that. Didn't like being a variable in someone else's equation. "What's their endgame?"
"That's what we need to figure out." He moved back to the desk, pulling up a tablet and swiping through files. "We've been running scenarios. Best case, they're corporate rivals trying to destabilize us. Worst case?—"
