Chapter 9 - Three Days to DieI did not tell Taylor about the assassination order.
That decision lasted approximately twelve minutes.
Then he found the paper inside my jacket.
In my defense, Taylor had spent three years becoming exceptionally skilled at identifying when I concealed information.
In his defense, the jacket had been left across the back of a chair.
There was very little defense for what happened afterward.
We were inside a safe apartment in Brooklyn.
Miriam and Elias occupied the kitchen, organizing the digital copies rescued from the Atlas.
Vale had been transferred toward another location.
Vincent remained under guard.
I emerged from the shower and found Taylor standing beside the table.
The document rested inside his hand.
His face had become terrifyingly calm.
“Where did you get this?”
I stopped.
“Put it down.”
“Vincent was supposed to kill you.”
“Apparently.”
“In three days.”
“The timing is difficult to misunderstand.”
Taylor looked toward the door.
I moved between him and it.
“No.”
“Move.”
“You are not killing him.”
“He accepted twenty million dollars to murder you.”
“It says he was assigned.”
“He accepted the payment.”
“We do not know whether he intended to complete it.”
Taylor stared at me.
“You are defending him.”
“I am defending the possibility that information matters.”
“He admitted building your captivity.”
“Yes.”
“He tortured Elias.”
“Yes.”
“He betrayed me.”
“That portion appears to bother you disproportionately.”
Taylor moved closer.
“If Vincent planned to touch you—”
I pointed one finger toward his chest.
“Finish that sentence carefully.”
He stopped.
There was an almost comical moment where the most feared man in New York visibly reconsidered grammar.
“If Vincent planned to harm you,” he corrected, “I will kill him.”
“Better wording. Same answer. No.”
“Why?”
“Because Vale wants us eliminating witnesses.”
Taylor looked at the paper again.
“He signed his death warrant.”
“Perhaps.”
“No perhaps.”
“Taylor.”
“He was my brother.”
The words changed everything.
His voice cracked slightly upon brother.
I had never heard Taylor use that word concerning Vincent.
I lowered my hand.
“He was the only person I trusted before you.”
That confession surprised me.
Taylor walked toward the window.
“My father believed trust was another word for stupidity.”
“Your father sounds charming.”
“He was efficient.”
“Not the same thing.”
Taylor looked toward the city.
“When I was nineteen, Vincent took a bullet meant for me.”
That was how their loyalty began.
Vincent was twenty-six.
A security contractor.
Taylor’s father barely knew his name.
After the shooting, Taylor promoted him.
Over the following decade, they survived three internal coups, two federal investigations, one assassination attempt in Naples, and a war with a Russian syndicate.
Helix had engineered portions of it.
Perhaps even the bullet.
That possibility hurt Taylor more than he admitted.
“What if every reason I trusted him was manufactured?”
I knew that question.
Mine was similar.
What if every intimate moment between Taylor and me had been anticipated by people watching from outside?
But manipulation did not erase personal choice.
Vale placed me inside Taylor’s world.
Taylor chose how to treat me.
Helix placed Vincent beside Taylor.
Vincent chose what he became.
“Ask him,” I said.
Taylor turned.
We entered Vincent’s room together.
He sat upon the bed.
No restraints.
Two guards outside.
Taylor placed the assassination order upon the table.
Vincent read it.
His face did not change.
“Did you accept this?”
“Yes.”
Taylor pulled his gun.
I pushed the barrel downward.
“You promised questions.”
“I promised nothing.”
“You want answers or a corpse?”
“Both.”
Vincent almost smiled.
“Some things remain unchanged.”
I sat opposite him.
“Why did you accept the contract?”
“Because refusing would have exposed me.”
“Did you intend to kill me?”
Vincent looked toward Taylor.
Then toward me.
“No.”
Taylor laughed.
The sound contained murder.
Vincent continued.
“I intended to stage your death.”
“Explain.”
Operation Orpheus required physical remains.
DNA confirmation.
Moretti evidence.
Vale wanted Taylor to see proof.
Vincent planned to substitute remains from a Helix-controlled morgue, fabricate DNA through corrupted forensic records, and secretly move me outside the country.
I stared.
“Why?”
He remained silent.
“Why save me?”
“Because by then Taylor would have destroyed half of New York after your actual death.”
Taylor’s jaw tightened.
Vincent looked toward him.
“I knew you better than Vale did.”
That was the irony.
Helix’s own embedded agent had become contaminated by loyalty.
He knew Taylor’s grief would not remain strategically useful.
It would become apocalyptic.
“So you were going to save me to protect him.”
“Yes.”
“Not because you cared whether I lived.”
“No.”
The answer was cruel.
I respected it more because it was honest.
Taylor lowered the gun slightly.
Vincent looked toward me.
“Then you escaped before the operation.”
“And Vale adapted.”
“He believed the Morettis took you. Taylor did exactly what Orpheus predicted without requiring your death.”
I thought of the war.
It had all been an experiment continuing after the subject left the laboratory.
“What happens in three days?”
Vincent looked at the paper.
“That contract is only one part.”
Of course.
Vale maintained contingency layers.
The termination date corresponded with a Helix event known as Black Sunday.
If Vale lost control of the Rossi and Moretti networks, regional directors would trigger coordinated law-enforcement leaks, assassinations, financial seizures, and evidence drops.
Not Janus.
Something older.
Something already scheduled.
“Can it be stopped?”
“Vale can stop it.”
“Will he?”
“No.”
Taylor smiled.
“He will.”
I did not like that smile.
“No torture.”
Taylor looked offended.
“I did not say anything.”
“Your face did.”
Vincent explained Black Sunday required six confirmations.
Vale possessed one.
The five regional operational chiefs possessed the others.
If three confirmations were removed, the event automatically canceled.
Three days.
Six people.
We did not need to control all of them.
Only three.
Miriam built the list.
London director: Charlotte Vane, former MI6 contractor.
Washington director: Senator Malcolm Pryce’s chief strategist, Daniel Kessler.
Mexico City: Arturo Salcedo, logistics magnate.
Singapore: Wei Jian, private banker.
Dubai: Nadim Farouk, security broker.
New York: Vincent himself.
We already controlled one.
Vincent could withdraw his confirmation.
That left two.
Taylor wanted Salcedo.
“He respects force.”
“Meaning you have threatened him before.”
“Yes.”
“Then he does not respect you.”
“He returns my calls.”
“Under threat.”
“Still counts.”
Miriam chose Charlotte Vane.
Elias chose Wei Jian.
I chose Daniel Kessler.
“Washington?” Taylor asked.
“Yes.”
“You hate politicians.”
“I hate efficient politicians. Corrupt ones are usually easier.”
Kessler had received Helix payments for nine years.
But his Atlas file contained a weakness.
Not drugs.
Not affairs.
Not murder.
His younger brother.
A federal prosecutor named Owen Kessler.
Completely clean.
Daniel had spent years secretly diverting Helix operations away from cases that might expose Owen.
He had a moral weakness.
Family.
“We use that,” I said.
Taylor stared.
“You are becoming increasingly ruthless.”
“I learned from excellent teachers.”
His eyes held mine.
“That is not always a compliment.”
“No.”
We traveled toward Washington separately.
Taylor remained inside New York.
That was my condition.
He complained for twenty-two minutes.
I threatened to leave the operation.
He stopped.
Growth.
Daniel Kessler met me inside a parking structure beneath Arlington.
He arrived alone.
I appeared from between two concrete columns.
“Mr. Kessler.”
He looked approximately forty-five.
Expensive coat.
Political haircut.
Fear inside his eyes.
“You are supposed to be dead.”
“I receive that frequently.”
“You cannot contact me.”
“I already did.”
“If Helix knows—”
“They will know eventually.”
I handed him a photograph.
His brother Owen leaving a courthouse.
Daniel’s face hardened.
“If you touch him—”
“I am not Helix.”
He stared.
“That is precisely the difference between us.”
I gave him copies from the Atlas.
Operations Daniel approved.
Bribes.
Obstruction.
One attempted assassination he redirected because Owen was inside the same building.
“You have been protecting your brother.”
Daniel said nothing.
“Black Sunday will expose Helix-linked federal cases.”
His face changed.
Good.
“Owen is prosecuting two of them.”
Helix would eliminate prosecutors connected toward sensitive files.
Daniel knew what that meant.
“You need to withdraw your confirmation.”
“I cannot.”
“You can.”
“They will kill me.”
“Probably if you remain.”
“And if I help you?”
“We can move Owen.”
Daniel laughed bitterly.
“You think you can protect a federal prosecutor?”
“No.”
I smiled slightly.
“But Taylor Rossi can.”
Daniel stared.
The absurdity almost impressed him.
Twenty-four hours later, Owen Kessler accepted an emergency Department of Justice reassignment after receiving credible intelligence concerning a threat.
The threat was real.
The source remained fictional.
Daniel withdrew his Black Sunday confirmation.
Two.
We needed one more.
Charlotte Vane disappeared before Miriam reached London.
Wei Jian was found dead inside his Singapore apartment.
Salcedo refused Taylor.
Farouk vanished.
Helix was cleaning its own network.
Time remaining: thirty-one hours.
Then Taylor called.
“Vale escaped.”
I stopped walking.
“What?”
“One guard dead. Two injured.”
“How?”
“Vincent.”
My blood became cold.
“Vincent helped him?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Taylor’s answer came slowly.
“Vale’s people attacked the safe location.”
“Where is Vincent?”
“Missing.”
That was worse.
Two confirmations remained withdrawn.
Vincent had been the third.
If Helix recovered him and forced his confirmation, Black Sunday remained active.
Taylor’s voice hardened.
“I am going after him.”
“No.”
“Alex.”
“Vale expects that.”
“I do not care.”
“You should.”
“He has Vincent.”
“So we find both.”
“You are in Washington.”
“I am returning.”
“No.”
The command inside his voice returned.
Old habits.
I became instantly cold.
“Be very careful, Taylor.”
Silence.
He understood.
“I am asking you not to return.”
“That is different.”
His breathing slowed.
“Please.”
That word.
Taylor Rossi had threatened senators.
Shot rivals.
Burned casinos.
Commanded armies.
I had never heard him say please toward me.
I closed my eyes.
“I am coming back.”
He did not argue again.
When my aircraft landed near New York, a single message waited.
Not from Taylor.
Not from Elias.
Not Miriam.
Vincent.
One location.
One sentence.
COME ALONE IF YOU WANT ROSSI TO LIVE.
I stared toward the words.
Vale had finally understood the weakness his models missed.
It was no longer Taylor’s obsession with me.
It was mine.
Because somewhere between escaping him and returning toward the war, I had developed a truth I hated admitting.
May you like
I no longer wanted Taylor Rossi dead.
And Sebastian Vale intended to make me pay for that mistake.
