Chapter 44

Williams’ black armored sedan pulled silently into the discreet service entrance of her estate. The house was a fortress, not merely a home, a compound of stark marble and shadow, guarded by silence and unseen perimeter agents.

The butler approached the car the moment Williams’ tailored heel touched the pristine flagstone. “Madam, we’ve placed the package in your office.”

Romaric stiffened as soon as he heard the word “package.” His brow furrowed in instant professional suspicion. Williams nodded, her face impassive, and walked past him into the echoing silence of the main hall.

“Go home and rest,” she commanded, her voice flat, an unexpected dismissal.

Romaric hesitated. Williams usually relied on him for security tasks, especially anything unusual. He was her shadow, bound to her outside the fortress walls. But tonight, he sensed a cold, private distrust. Though her order handcuffed him, he could not leave without knowing.

He turned back to the butler, who was smoothing an imaginary crease in his jacket. “The package. What was it?”

The butler lowered his voice. “A stranger on a motorcycle delivered it, Madam’s name on the label. He said it was a matter of ‘life or death,’ sir. You know how many interventions she handles; perhaps a distressed family member.”

Romaric’s uneasiness curdled into alarm. Letters arrived at the hospital, never here, and never with such an unnerving message. Cornered by protocol, he had no choice but to leave the sealed compound, feeling the chill of having abandoned his post at the moment of highest risk.

Inside, Williams shed her elegant, professional shell. She rushed upstairs, the silence of the marble staircase amplifying her solitude. She took a long, hot bath, washing off the smell of the journalists and the tension of the family dinner. Emerging, clad in a silk robe, she descended to her office.

A single crystal tumbler of amber whiskey glowed on her desk beside the blocky, tightly sealed package. It sat like a small, inert bomb. She took a long, neat swallow of the whiskey, the burn a momentary anchor, and called the butler to cut the heavy seals. Once the outer layer was gone, she dismissed him, leaving herself utterly alone with the contents.

Tonight, before Williams, lay Malaya’s Plan A: the comprehensive proof of Emilio’s betrayal, the meticulously falsified records, and the true timeline of Evelyn’s operation.

Williams began to check the documents. Her initial composure fractured as she connected the threads. Emilio, her trusted associate, had engineered this chaos. The operation, the media crisis, and the subsequent collapse of her carefully constructed reality, all rooted in a single, professional betrayal.

The air grew thin. The whiskey tasted like ash. As she flipped through the final confessions, a sharp, metallic tang filled her mouth. The pressure behind her eyes mounted unbearably.

“They betrayed me,” Williams whispered, the sound a ragged tear in the silence. Her voice gained momentum, thick with rage. “They are betraying me… always.”

She clutched her head, fingers digging into her scalp as a violent dizziness, far worse than the night before, took hold. The nosebleed started, two hot, viscous streams breaking the perfect symmetry of her face. She ignored the blood, swayed, and then the world dissolved into a blinding white light.

Williams collapsed, her body hitting the expensive Persian rug with a sickening thud.

In the haze of the blackout, the white light coalesced, and a voice amplified in her head.

“Doctor Niran Williams, you are who you want to be.”

Her mind, struggling through the darkness, fought back. “I… am Dr. Niran Williams.”

“And who is Dr. Niran Williams?”

“She saves lives!”

“No. False.”

“She gives life back…”

“That’s it.”

“…and she controls life… Hahaha!” Williams’ laugh was a drunken, broken sound of terrifying self-recognition. “You don’t play with Dr. Niran Williams.” Her expression twisted, pure hatred carving lines onto her unconscious face. “YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!”

Then silence, total and absolute, descended upon the fortress. BLACK-OUT

Outside, the night wind slapped the taxi violently. Rouffie, under the codename Jack, glanced at Kannika, Yo.

“Today, your case will be solved,” he whispered, his face barely visible in the orange streetlights.

“I understand the urgency, Jack, but this is dangerously exposed,” Kannika replied, her voice tight. “We have no backup, and you’re not an agent on this case. You’re an informant.”

“Yo, I’m a police informant. Tell me, do you want to solve this case or not?”

The target:
A brilliant informatician who sold encrypted access to violent criminal groups.
He only appeared in this exclusive underground club once a month.
Tonight was their only chance.

Kannika looked at him, her usual precise, masculine wardrobe replaced by a tight, shimmering purple minidress, her damp, curly hair falling around her bare shoulders. She felt exposed, cheapened, and volatile.

“Hmph.” She looked away. “You know that if they discover anything, we’re screwed.”

“I know, Yo…”

“No, shut up.” Kannika turned back, her eyes intense. “When I say ‘screwed,’ I mean we might be seeing each other for the last time.”

He went silent. He understood. They were professionals. They knew the risk they were taking to ambush the IT specialist in this hyper-private club, gambling on their lives to get the evidence. Her only weapon was a tiny, secure phone to extract data and a vial of fast-acting tranquilizer hidden in her jacket pocket.

“Yo,” Rouffie said, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “Listen to me. You go in. You sit next to him. You lure him into that back room. You…”

“Seduce him,” Kannika finished, a note of weariness and resentment in her voice.

“I know he’s not your type… I mean…”

“Please. We’ve talked. Thirty minutes to catch him. We extract his info, and we get him to click the trigger file. And above all, watch the edges. I’ll watch your back.”

The taxi screeched to a halt outside a monolithic building pulsing with muffled bass. Kannika pulled her jacket tighter, shielding the subtle lines of the data phone and the drug vial. She was sublime, her defiance sharpened by the unnatural, glittering makeup.

Inside, the atmosphere was a humid, vibrating envelope of deep bass, colored smoke, and cheap perfume. The light was almost nonexistent, broken only by strobing lasers that cut through the haze. Kannika moved through the crowd, feeling every movement of her body exposed and vulnerable.

She spotted the IT specialist in a shadowy alcove, blending seamlessly, his face illuminated by the blue glow of his phone screen. He looked less like a criminal mastermind and more like a talented, isolated tech worker.

Kannika ordered a drink at the bar, positioning herself in his line of sight. Soon, a random man approached, his intentions crude and obvious. A small, tense altercation ensued, attracting brief, hostile attention. The club’s security quickly intervened, dragging the man out.

Kannika turned, feigning disorientation, her face now artfully distressed.

“Are you okay?” a smooth voice asked.

She turned. It was the IT specialist. She was happy; she knew it would happen because she had made sure to be dressed just like the specialist liked. As much as he used the club as a cover, he also enjoyed having a fun time with rare delicacies. Kannika was his type.

“No, please…” she began, playing the role of the overwhelmed victim.

“Easy there,” he said, his eyes sympathetic. “I don’t intend to insist if you’re not interested, just for a drink.”

“Hmm.” Kannika let her guard down just enough to appeal to his protective side. He sat down. They talked, a dizzying, shallow conversation over the pounding beat.

“So, what is a girl like you doing here?” he asked, leaning in close.

“A girl?”

He offered a quick, apologetic smile. “Should I say a beautiful lady? Excuse my street language; your beauty is distracting.” He spat the last word slightly, his breath warm and alcoholic.

This was the opening. Kannika forced herself to smile, leaning in even closer, her hand subtly reaching for her pocket. “You find me beautiful?” she whispered, her voice husky.

She led him by the hand toward the back, dimly lit private booths, the perfect place for the final execution of the plan.

In the shadows, Kannika’s movement was quick and invisible. While his gaze was fixed on the promised intimacy, she smeared a clear, fast-acting tranquilizer gel onto her lips, disguising the bitterness with a lick of the drink she held.

“You are too fast,” she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “We should savor the moment.”

She brought her face close to his, the sudden, potent mix of fear and pheromones intoxicating. He needed the code; she needed the access.

He reached for her; his eyes glazed with anticipation. She allowed him to pull her close, but the moment his lips pressed against hers, she forced the kiss deep, ensuring the dose was transferred.

His body went instantly limp, collapsing onto the leather couch.

“Done,” Kannika breathed into her hidden comms. She quickly retrieved the data phone and moved to connect it to his device.

“What the hell happened here?”

A brutal, heavy voice cut through the noise. It was a colleague of the specialist, a hulking, furious shadow who had followed them. He saw his friend unconscious and Kannika poised over the phones.

“It’s just too much alcohol!” Kannika yelled, trying to sound drunk and frantic, her fingers flying over the data transfer.

He did not believe her. He roared and launched himself across the small room. Kannika dodged the first blow, a bone-jarring swing, and the fight erupted. She used her training: quick, brutal precision against his sheer weight. A flying kick glanced off his head, buying her a second.

The data transfer was at 70 percent.

The door to the booth burst open. Rouffie, her backup, was there, his gun drawn, a dark shape in the swirling light. “Freeze! Police!”

The colleague screamed and lunged, driving Kannika hard against the wall. He reached for a pistol tucked into his waistband.

The scene exploded. A deafening, flat crack of gunfire ripped through the club’s music. The colleague had fired, the muzzle flash burning a brief imprint on Kannika’s retina.

Rouffie screamed, clutching his side, stumbling back into the hallway.

Kannika was instantly galvanized. The instinct of the agent, not the prostitute, not the student, took over. She drove a vicious elbow into her attacker’s temple, sending him reeling, and bolted out into the hallway.

Rouffie was down, bleeding, scrambling for cover. The colleague, now joined by a second armed man, was firing indiscriminately into the panicked crowd.

Kannika saw the next round of fire targeting Rouffie’s unprotected head. There was no time to pull her own backup weapon, no time for tactics.

With a superhuman surge of adrenaline, Kannika launched herself forward, tackling Rouffie back behind a heavy velvet rope barrier, simultaneously throwing her body over his.

The sharp, devastating impact of a bullet tore into her left shoulder. The pain was not immediately searing, but a massive, crushing force that stole her breath and left a hot, immediate slick of blood soaking her purple dress. The sound of the crowd dissolving into panicked shrieks was the last thing she heard as Rouffie cried out her name.

The data transfer was complete. She had the information, but she was down.      

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