Connor came prepared for war, which means someone gave him detailed information about our defenses.
“Did you see anyone on our side acting strange? Anyone who might have been signaling the attackers?”
Louis shakes his head. “No, sir. Everyone was engaging properly, following protocol.” He hesitates, then adds, “Zima wasn’t at his post, though. Southeast corner tower. When I radioed him during the attack, he didn’t respond.”
My jaw tightens.Zima. That’s the third person who’s mentioned him.
“You’re sure?”
Louis nods vigorously. “Yes, sir. I specifically remember because I was trying to get eyes on the south approach and he should have had the best vantage point, but he wasn’t answering.”
I study Louis for another long moment, looking for any sign of deception. Nothing. He’s telling the truth.
“You can go,” I tell him. “Send in Harry on your way out.”
Louis practically runs for the door, relief evident on his face.
I don’t blame him.
Being questioned by your boss after a security breach is never pleasant, especially when that boss has a reputation for what he does to traitors.
Dante is standing in the corner of the room, observing silently like he’s been doing for every single one of these interrogations.
He’s been here for hours, taking notes and watching for anything I might miss.
His dark hair is graying at the temples and his sharp brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses miss absolutely nothing.
He’s dressed in his usual professional attire, a tailored suit that makes him look more like a corporate lawyer than a consigliere to a mob boss.
Which, technically, he is both.
“Zima,” I say as soon as the door closes. “That’s the fourth person to mention he wasn’t responding during the attack.”
“Fifth,” Dante corrects without looking up from his notes, his voice flat. “Sal also said Zima’s radio was dark.”
I push off the table and start pacing, ignoring the sharp pain in my side from where I took a grazing shot during the firefight.
It’s not serious enough to need stitches but it’s painful enough to be a constant, irritating fucking reminder that someone on my payroll sold me out.
The blood on my shirt has dried to a stiff, uncomfortable crust and it’s pissing me off.
“Fifth,” I repeat, my jaw clenching. “Five people noticed Zima wasn’t at his post and no one thought to mention it before now?”
Dante finally looks up, his expression carefully neutral in the way that means he’s just as angry as I am but controlling it better. “They were busy being shot at. Priorities.”
“Don’t defend them.” I stop pacing and turn to face him, feeling my temper starting to fray. “Someone betrayed us. Someone gave Connor Brennan everything he needed to breach this property, and I want to know who.”
The battle replays in my mind, sharp and clear despite the chaos. Or maybe because of the chaos. Violence has a way of burning itself into your memory.
By the time I made it outside after Dante’s call, Connor’s men were already through the south gate, spreading out across the property like they knew exactly where they were going. Which they did, obviously, thanks to that bastard Zima.
The flash of muzzle fire in the darkness. The sharp crack of bullets hitting stone.
The way the air smelled like cordite and summer grass.
I remember ducking behind the fountain as rounds tore chunks out of the marble, the sound of ricochets whining past my head close enough that I felt the displacement of air.
And Connor Brennan himself—the arrogant fuck actually came in person, standing behind a line of his men, barking orders and pointing toward the main house. Pointing toward where Emma was locked up.