Mason's POV
The tires crunched on the white gravel driveway.
Mason cut the engine of the borrowed sedan. He sat in the dark, looking up at the monster of a house. Sterling Peak Estate. It wasn't a house; it was a fortress of glass and steel built into the mountainside, blazing with light against the black sky. Music and laughter floated down on the cold air.
His team was already in position. Two hours ago, in a dusty garage on the edge of town, they'd reunited. Bear, Jinx, and Doc. No handshakes. Just tight nods, hard smiles, and a shared, unspoken understanding. They'd seen the flash drive video. They'd heard the plan. It was enough.
"You sure about walking in the front door, Mace?" Bear had rumbled, checking his sleek, black suit. They all looked like wealthy security, not soldiers.
"He's looking for a fugitive in the woods," Mason had said, adjusting his own uniform. "Not a guest at his party."
Now, that guest sat alone in the car. His uniform his formal Army Dress Blues felt like armor. The medals were cold against his chest. He wasn't hiding. He was declaring.
He got out of the car. The cold air bit, but he didn't feel it. He started walking up the long, lit path to the mansion's grand entrance. Other guests streamed past him men in perfect tuxedos, women in sparkling dresses wrapped in furs. They glanced at him. Their laughter died. Their eyes went wide, then nervous. He was a wolf walking into a poodle party.
Two huge security guards in black stood at the double doors. They weren't the mansion's usual staff; they were Victor's private muscle. Mason recognized the type. Their eyes scanned him, head to toe, locking on the uniform.
One held up a hand. "Invitation, sir."
Mason didn't break stride. He looked past the guard's shoulder, into the glittering crowd inside. "Your boss invited me. Personally."
He kept walking. The guard moved to block him, putting a hand on Mason's chest. "Sir, I need to see"
Mason's hand snapped up, grabbing the man's wrist. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to stop him cold. He leaned in close, his voice a low, dangerous whisper only the guard could hear.
"You have two choices. You let go, and I walk in. Or you make a scene, in front of all these important people, trying to manhandle a decorated veteran on Remembrance Day weekend. Which looks worse for your boss?"
The guard's eyes flickered. He saw the medals. He saw the cold certainty in Mason's eyes. He calculated the risk. His hand dropped.
Mason released the wrist and walked through the doors.
The world inside was a blast of heat, perfume, and noise. A crystal chandelier the size of a car hung from the ceiling. A string quartet played, but the music was drowned out by a hundred conversations. The air smelled of money.
Heads turned. Conversations stumbled to a halt. The music didn't stop, but it felt like it had. All eyes were on him. The soldier in the sea of silk.
Mason ignored them. He moved through the crowd like it was a battlefield. He noted exits. Windows. The locations of the other security guards—he counted six in the main room. He looked for his target.
He didn't see Victor. Not yet.
He did see a familiar, slimy face across the room. Aldrich, the lawyer. He was holding a champagne flute, talking to a senator. He saw Mason. His smug smile vanished. The glass in his hand shook. He turned and disappeared into the crowd, heading for a hallway.
Good. Go warn your master, Mason thought. Let him know I'm here.
A waiter glided past with a tray of champagne. Mason didn't take one. He didn't belong here. He was a weapon in a room full of ornaments.
He felt a light touch on his arm. He turned, ready for anything.
It was an older woman, her eyes sharp and sad. She wore a simple black dress when everyone else was in color. She looked at his uniform, then at his face.
"You knew her," the woman said. It wasn't a question.
Mason stared. "Who?"
"Tessa Sterling. The senator's daughter." The woman's voice was quiet but clear. "I saw your picture in her office. You're Mason. Her husband."
Mason's guard stayed up. "Who are you?"
"Eleanor Vance. I was her botany professor. She was my best student." The woman's eyes glistened. "She came to me a month ago. She was scared. She had water samples from the north ridge. The toxicity levels… they were off the charts. She said Victor Sterling was dumping illegal waste from his mining operations. She said she was going to confront him." She looked around nervously. "A week later, she was dead. An accident."
Mason's heart hammered. This was a witness. An independent voice. "Will you say that to the police?"
Before she could answer, a booming, fake-cheerful voice cut through the air.
"Mason! What a surprise! I'm so glad you could make it."
Victor Sterling parted the crowd like a shark cutting through water. He wore a tuxedo that cost more than Mason's truck. His smile was all teeth, no warmth. He clapped a hand on Mason's shoulder, a gesture meant to look friendly but that felt like a claim of ownership.
The crowd watched, silent and tense.
"Everyone," Victor announced, his voice carrying. "This is a true hero. A Delta Force veteran. We owe him so much." It was a performance. He was trying to box Mason in, to define him as just a soldier, a grateful recipient of their charity.
Mason didn't shrug the hand off. He turned his head slowly and looked at Victor's hand on his uniform, then up into Victor's eyes.
Victor's smile faltered for a split second. He saw the look. It wasn't grief. It wasn't anger. It was assessment. The look a predator gives its prey right before the strike.
Victor pulled his hand away, subtly wiping it on his pants.
"A tragic loss, your wife," Victor said, his voice dropping to a mock-concerned murmur for the crowd's benefit. "Such a terrible accident in my woods. I hope the settlement my lawyer offered can at least provide some comfort."
Mason's voice, when he spoke, was calm and carried in the sudden quiet. "No amount of money can cover up a murder, Victor."
A gasp rippled through the closest guests. Victor's face flushed red.
"Now, see here," Victor blustered, playing the wounded host. "I understand you're upset, but that's a dangerous accusation to make in my home."
"It's not an accusation," Mason said, taking a small step forward. The crowd instinctively stepped back, forming a ring around them. "It's a promise. I'm going to prove you killed her. And I'm going to prove your friend the senator helped you."
Victor's eyes flickered with real fear, then hardened into fury. He leaned in close, hissing so only Mason could hear. "You're a dead man walking. You just don't know it yet. My men are outside. You'll never leave this mountain."
Mason leaned in as well, his voice a cold whisper. "Your men are currently being distracted by a series of car alarms and a small, controlled fire in your west gate guardhouse. My friends are very creative."
Victor's confidence cracked. He straightened up, signaling frantically to a guard across the room.
Mason knew the confrontation was over. He'd done what he came to do: plant the seed of doubt in front of Victor's peers, and shake Victor's cool façade. Now, for phase two.
He gave Victor one last, long look, then turned and walked away, cutting through the silent, staring crowd.
He moved toward a wide, arched hallway leading away from the main party. A sign in fancy script read: The Conservatory & Collections.
The trophy hall. He knew it had to be.
He was almost to the arch when a hand grabbed his elbow. He spun, ready to fight.
It was Professor Vance. She shoved a small, folded piece of paper into his hand. "The name of the honest deputy. The one who took the photos. He's been suspended. He's hiding. Find him." She melted back into the crowd.
Mason tucked the paper into his pocket and stepped through the arch.
The noise of the party faded. He was in a long, quieter hallway. At the end was a set of heavy wooden doors, partly open. Soft light spilled out.
He walked toward it, his boots silent on the marble floor.
He pushed the door open.
The room was vast, with a ceiling three stories high. It wasn't a room; it was a museum of death. The walls were covered in the mounted heads of animals from every continent: a lion, a bear, a buffalo, their glass eyes staring into nothing. In the center of the room was Victor's prize: a full-grown elephant head, its tusks gleaming.
Mason's eyes scanned the walls, his heart a cold drum in his chest.
Then he saw it.
On the wall to the left, between the head of a massive grizzly and a rare snow leopard, was a large, elegantly framed photograph.
It was Tessa.
The photo was from their wedding day. She was laughing, looking right at the camera, right at him, full of life and love.
Someone had mounted it like a trophy. A brass plaque below it was engraved with a date. The date she died.
A white-hot rage, purer and more dangerous than anything he'd ever felt, exploded behind his eyes. His vision tunneled. The room faded. All he could see was her face, displayed among these dead things.
He took a step toward the wall, his hand reaching out.
A smooth, cold voice spoke from the shadows in the corner of the room.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she? A rare creature."
Mason froze. He turned.
Senator Conrad Sterling stepped out from behind a display case of antique rifles. Tessa's father. He held a glass of amber liquor. His eyes were dry. His face was a mask of polite regret.
"I told Victor it was in poor taste," the Senator said, sipping his drink. "But he does so love his collection. He considered her his greatest hunt."
Mason couldn't speak. The betrayal was too vast, too evil.
The Senator walked closer, his eyes on Tessa's photo. "She was always so difficult. So principled. Like her mother. It's a shame she couldn't see the bigger picture. The jobs Victor provides. The money he pumps into this state. Sometimes, a few must be sacrificed for the good of the many."
He turned his cold gaze on Mason. "You're a soldier. You understand sacrifice, don't you?"
Mason found his voice. It was raw. "I understand honor. You sold yours. You sold your daughter."
The Senator's mask slipped. A flash of real anger showed. "I saved an empire! And you… you are a gnat buzzing around a lion. Victor will crush you. But I'm offering you one last chance. Walk away. Tonight. My driver will take you to the airport. A new identity. A new life. Far away."
He was giving Mason the same choice Victor had: money and silence, or death.
Mason looked from the Senator's proud, cruel face to Tessa's laughing, beautiful one on the trophy wall.
He knew his answer.
But before he could give it, the heavy wooden doors at the entrance to the hall slammed shut with a final, echoing BOOM.
From the shadows near the elephant head, two more of Victor's mercenaries stepped out, blocking the only other exit a servants' door. They had electric stun batons in their hands, crackling with blue light.
The Senator took a step back, a faint smile on his lips. "It seems your time to choose has run out."
Mason was trapped. Alone. In a room with his wife's murderer and the man who gave the order, with two armed guards at his back.
He was surrounded.
Mason entered the gala and confronted Victor.
Mason is trapped in the trophy room with the Senator and armed guards.