The assassination attempt came at 3:47 AM on a Tuesday, which Seraphina found personally offensive. If someone was going to try to murder her, they could at least have the courtesy to do it at a reasonable hour.
The explosion that shattered the windows of their London penthouse was loud enough to wake half of Mayfair, but Seraphina was already moving before the glass finished falling. Eighteen months of marriage to the most dangerous man in Britain had taught her to sleep with one ear open and weapons within reach.
"Kitchen," Damien's voice came through their comms, calm despite the circumstances. "Three hostiles, professional gear. They're not here to rob us."
"Bedroom clear," Seraphina replied, pulling on tactical gear over her silk pajamas. The contrast would have been amusing if people weren't actively trying to kill her. "Moving to intercept."
She slipped through their penthouse like a shadow, her bare feet silent on the marble floors. The home security system was displaying a Christmas tree of red alerts, but she ignored the electronic warnings in favor of older instincts. Eighteen months of living as the world's most hated whistleblower had honed her survival skills to a razor's edge.
The first assassin never saw her coming. He was too focused on the thermal imaging device that would have shown him exactly where she was if she hadn't learned to mask her heat signature using techniques that the SAS would have envied. Her knife found the gap between his tactical vest and helmet with surgical precision.
The second assassin lasted longer—almost thirty seconds. He had good reflexes and better training, but he made the mistake of assuming she was a pampered socialite playing at being dangerous. By the time he realized his error, Seraphina's garrote was already cutting off his air supply.
The third assassin was smarter. He heard his teammates die and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Seraphina arrived in the kitchen to find Damien zip-tying an unconscious man in military fatigues to one of their dining chairs.
"Alive?" she asked, checking the man's pulse out of professional curiosity.
"For now." Damien's smile was sharp enough to perform surgery. "I thought we might want to have a conversation with him before deciding his long-term prospects."
Seraphina nodded, moving to the shattered windows to survey the damage. Their building's security team was already swarming the lower floors, but she could see news vans gathering in the street below. Within hours, every major outlet would be running stories about the attack on the Marcus Kane Foundation's founders.
Which was probably the point.
"This wasn't random," she observed, noting the professional placement of the explosive charges. "Someone wanted to send a message."
"The question is who." Damien was searching their prisoner's equipment with methodical efficiency. "No identification, no distinctive markings on the gear, but..." He held up a small device that looked like a cross between a phone and a computer. "Military-grade communication equipment. This isn't the kind of thing freelance assassins can afford."
Before Seraphina could respond, their secured phone line rang. She glanced at the caller ID and felt her blood chill.
"Unknown international number," she said, showing Damien the display. "Routed through at least six proxy servers."
"Answer it," he said, his voice deadly calm. "Speaker phone."
Seraphina accepted the call, her finger hovering over the trace function they'd installed after the Westbrook affair. "Good morning," she said pleasantly. "I assume you're calling to take responsibility for the amateur attempt on our lives?"
"Mrs. Blackwood." The voice was electronically distorted, but she could hear amusement underneath the digital scrambling. "I trust you found our message... illuminating."
"If by illuminating you mean 'poorly executed by incompetent assassins,' then yes." Seraphina moved to the window, scanning the street for potential threats. "Though I have to say, 3:47 AM is rather inconsiderate. Some of us require our beauty sleep."
"Your sense of humor is noted. And will be the first thing we remove when we get serious about killing you."
"Assuming you can." Damien had joined the conversation, his voice carrying the kind of casual menace that made smart people reconsider their life choices. "Your associates tonight suggest otherwise."
"Tonight was a demonstration, Mr. Blackwood. A sample of our capabilities. The real attempt will be considerably more... comprehensive."
"Who are you?" Seraphina asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
"We represent certain interests that your foundation has made... uncomfortable. People who value their privacy and are willing to pay handsomely to maintain it."
"Ah." Seraphina's smile was sharp as winter. "You're the cleanup crew. The people who get called when exposure becomes inconvenient."
"We prefer to think of ourselves as consultants. We solve problems that governments and corporations find... politically difficult to address directly."
"And we're a problem?"
"You've become more than a problem, Mrs. Blackwood. You've become an existential threat to entire industries. The charity fraud exposures were bad enough, but now you're expanding into defense contracts, pharmaceutical companies, agricultural monopolies..." The voice paused, and she could hear the smile in it. "You're making too many powerful people nervous."
Seraphina looked at Damien, seeing her own thoughts reflected in his pale gray eyes. They'd known this day would come—the moment when their success would make them too dangerous to ignore. The Marcus Kane Foundation had grown beyond anyone's expectations, including their own.
"So you thought you'd solve the problem with a few bombs and some second-rate assassins?" she asked.
"Tonight was an invitation to negotiate. A demonstration that we can reach you anywhere, anytime. But we're reasonable people, Mrs. Blackwood. We're prepared to offer you a very generous retirement package."
"How generous?"
"Five billion pounds, transferred to accounts of your choosing. Complete immunity for you, your husband, and your immediate associates. New identities, new lives, anywhere in the world you'd like to disappear to." The voice took on a persuasive tone. "You could live like royalty for the rest of your lives. All you have to do is shut down the foundation and walk away."
"And if we refuse?"
"Then we stop being polite." The electronic distortion couldn't hide the menace in those words. "You have forty-eight hours to consider our offer, Mrs. Blackwood. I suggest you use them wisely."
The line went dead, leaving them standing in their destroyed kitchen with an unconscious assassin and the kind of ultimatum that had toppled governments.
"Well," Damien said after a moment, "that was bracing."
"Five billion pounds," Seraphina mused, stepping over broken glass to reach the coffee machine. "That's actually quite flattering. I didn't realize we were worth that much to them."
"Probably represents a fraction of what they stand to lose if we keep operating." Damien was already on his phone, calling in their security team for a full building sweep. "The question is whether they're serious about the forty-eight-hour deadline."
"Oh, they're serious." Seraphina started making coffee with the calm efficiency of someone who'd learned to find normalcy in chaos. "The question is whether we're serious about refusing."
Damien's eyes sharpened. "You're not actually considering their offer?"
"I'm considering what it means." She poured two cups, adding cream to his and nothing to her own. "Five billion pounds says we've moved beyond irritating corrupt charities. We're threatening something bigger. Something worth killing for."
"Something worth dying for, you mean."
"Both." She handed him his coffee, her fingers lingering on his. "The question is whether we're ready for that kind of war."
Before he could answer, their secure line chimed with an incoming message. Seraphina checked it, frowning at the sender.
"Michael," she said, showing Damien the encrypted text from Michael Ashford. "He wants to meet. Says it's urgent and can't wait for our regular security protocols."
"That's not like him." Damien's expression darkened. "Michael's more paranoid about security than we are."
"Which means something's seriously wrong." Seraphina was already moving toward their bedroom to change into something more appropriate for a clandestine meeting. "Where does he want to meet?"
"St. Bartholomew's Church, South Kensington. In an hour."
"Public place, multiple exits, consecrated ground." Damien was thinking like the tactician he'd been trained to be. "Either he's being extra careful, or someone's forcing him to lure us into a trap."
"Only one way to find out." Seraphina emerged from the bedroom wearing dark jeans, a bulletproof vest disguised as a fashionable jacket, and enough concealed weapons to outfit a small army. "Besides, after tonight's excitement, I could use some fresh air."
"Are you insane?" Damien caught her arm as she headed for the door. "We just survived an assassination attempt, received a death threat from what sounds like an international killing syndicate, and you want to walk into a potentially compromised meeting?"
"I want to find out what Michael knows that's important enough to risk both our lives." Her eyes were steady, determined. "This isn't random, Damien. The timing is too convenient. Michael contacts us hours after we're attacked? He knows something."
"Or he's been compromised."
"Then we'll know soon enough." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, tasting coffee and concern on his lips. "Besides, you're coming with me. If it's a trap, it's going to be a very expensive one for whoever set it."
Damien studied her face for a long moment, seeing the steel that had made him fall in love with her in the first place. "You know I can't let you do this alone."
"I know." Her smile was soft, genuine, the expression she reserved for moments when the masks came down. "I'm counting on it."
Twenty minutes later, they were walking through the pre-dawn streets of London, two figures in expensive dark clothing moving with the kind of casual confidence that came from knowing exactly how dangerous they were. Their security team shadowed them at a discrete distance, while electronic countermeasures provided additional protection against surveillance.
St. Bartholomew's Church rose before them like a Gothic finger pointing toward heaven, its ancient stones having witnessed centuries of London's secrets. At this hour, it should have been empty except for the occasional homeless person seeking shelter.
It wasn't.
"Three heat signatures inside," Damien reported, checking the thermal imaging app on his phone. "Michael, plus two unknowns."
"Friends or enemies?"
"About to find out." He drew his pistol, keeping it low and out of sight. "Stay behind me until we know what we're walking into."
"Like hell." Seraphina's own weapon was already in her hand, safety off, finger resting lightly on the trigger. "We go in together, or not at all."
They entered the church side by side, moving with the synchronized precision of two people who'd learned to fight as one organism. The interior was dimly lit by emergency lighting, casting long shadows between the wooden pews.
Michael Ashford sat in the front row, but something was wrong. His posture was too rigid, his shoulders too tense. As they got closer, Seraphina could see the thin wire running from his ear to something hidden beneath his jacket.
"Michael," she called softly.
He turned, and she saw fear in his pale blue eyes. Real fear, the kind that came from knowing death was a heartbeat away.
"Seraphina. Damien." His voice was carefully controlled, but she could hear the strain underneath. "Thank you for coming."
"What's wrong?" Damien asked, though his weapon was already tracking toward potential threats.
"I've been compromised," Michael said simply. "They have Isabel. And they want to make a deal."
As if summoned by his words, two figures emerged from the shadows beside the altar. They wore expensive suits and moved with the kind of predatory confidence that spoke of serious training and unlimited resources.
"Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood," the taller one said, his accent suggesting Eastern European origins. "Thank you for accepting our invitation."
"Your invitation?" Seraphina kept her gun trained on him, though she was tracking the second man with her peripheral vision. "This wasn't Michael's idea."
"Michael has been most cooperative," the man continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "His sister's continued health depends on his continued cooperation."
"Where is she?" Damien's voice was deadly quiet.
"Safe. For now." The second man spoke for the first time, his accent placing him somewhere in the former Soviet states. "Whether she remains safe depends on your willingness to be reasonable."
"Reasonable about what?"
"About accepting our employer's generous offer to retire from public life." The first man smiled, and it was the kind of expression that belonged on sharks. "Five billion pounds is more money than most people see in a lifetime, Mrs. Blackwood. Surely your principles aren't worth more than that?"
"My principles," Seraphina said calmly, "aren't for sale at any price."
"Perhaps not. But what about your friend's life?" The second man held up a tablet, showing a video feed of Isabel Ashford tied to a chair in what looked like an abandoned warehouse. "Or your husband's? Or the lives of every person who works for your foundation?"
The threat hung in the air like incense, thick and cloying. Seraphina felt something cold and familiar settle in her chest—the same calculating fury that had carried her through her father's murder and every battle since.
"You know what?" she said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "I think I'm done being reasonable."
She shot the first man in the kneecap, dropping him to the stone floor with a scream that echoed through the church. Before his partner could react, Damien's bullet took him in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending his weapon clattering across the floor.
"Now," Seraphina said, kneeling beside the wounded man while Damien secured the second attacker, "let's discuss the terms of Isabel's release. And this time, I'll be setting the price."
The game had changed. The stakes had escalated. And the devil's queen was about to remind the world why crossing the Blackwoods was considered a terminal diagnosis.
The war for justice was entering its second phase, and Seraphina intended to win it decisively.