“And the people who actually own that money just found out.”

Caleb’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening.

He took a slow step toward the terrace, his boots crunching on the gravel.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

I tapped the screen of the tablet to play the audio confession we had recovered from Elena’s terminal.

The high-output speakers mounted on the courtyard walls crackled to life.

Caleb’s own voice, recorded secretly weeks ago, filled the empty air.

*”The regional heads won’t notice the missing three percent,”* the recording played.

*”By the time they do, Adrian will take the blame, and I will have the estate.”*

The recording was clear, crisp, and undeniable.

The lead mercenary, a tall man with a scarred jaw, stiffened.

His hand slowly drifted away from his weapon.

His wrist terminal beeped with a sudden, high-pitched alert.

The other two mercenaries received the same notification on their devices.

Their screens flashed with a red termination order directly from the syndicate’s central server.

I watched Caleb’s face turn pale under the harsh glare of the halogen floodlights.

The reality of his situation was settling into his eyes.