*Three months after the Marcus Kane Foundation Gala*
The bullet missed Seraphina's head by two inches.
She felt the whisper of displaced air as she dove behind the marble column, her champagne glass shattering against the floor of the charity auction where she'd been giving a speech about corporate accountability. The irony wasn't lost on her—someone had just tried to assassinate her at an event dedicated to transparency in business.
"Down! Everyone down!" Damien's voice cut through the screaming as London's elite scrambled for cover behind auction tables laden with priceless art. His pistol was already in his hand, tracking for the source of the shot.
"Rooftop across the street," Seraphina called out, her own weapon drawn as she assessed their situation. "Professional setup, probably military training."
"MacLeod, status report," Damien spoke into his comm unit.
"Sniper eliminated," came the crisp Scottish reply. "But sir, we have a problem. This wasn't a lone wolf. I'm reading at least six more heat signatures moving on the building."
Another shot shattered a crystal chandelier, sending glittering fragments raining down on the cowering auction guests. Seraphina recognized several faces in the crowd—politicians whose campaigns she'd investigated, business leaders whose charitable donations had proven suspiciously convenient, media moguls who'd discovered that some stories were too dangerous to ignore.
All of them were now potential casualties in a war they'd helped create.
"This way," she called to the crowd, gesturing toward the emergency exits her security team had mapped before the event. "Stay low, move fast, and don't stop until you're outside."
As London's most powerful people fled like startled sheep, Seraphina caught sight of someone who wasn't running. Lord Pemberton sat calmly at his auction table, sipping wine while bullets flew around him, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Damien," she said quietly, nodding toward the man they'd been hunting for months. "Our friend seems remarkably composed for someone in the middle of a firefight."
"Almost like he knew it was coming," Damien agreed grimly. "MacLeod, can you get a clean shot on Pemberton?"
"Negative, sir. Too many civilians in the line of fire. But I can tell you who's not shooting at him—none of the hostiles are aiming anywhere near his position."
That confirmed it. This wasn't random violence or even a targeted assassination attempt. This was a demonstration, carefully orchestrated to send a message while keeping certain people safe.
"He's showing us what he can do," Seraphina realized. "Turn any public event into a battlefield. Make it impossible for us to appear in public without risking innocent lives."
"Clever," Damien admitted, though his tone suggested he didn't appreciate the strategy. "But not clever enough."
Before Seraphina could ask what he meant, the building's fire suppression system activated, flooding the auction hall with thick foam that reduced visibility to almost zero. In the chaos that followed, she felt Damien's hand on her arm, guiding her toward what should have been a solid wall.
Instead, it was a hidden passage that opened at their approach.
"When did you—" she started.
"I bought the building six months ago," Damien explained as they moved through the narrow corridor. "Seemed like good insurance, considering how many events we attend here."
The passage led to a private elevator that descended far below the building's official basement levels. When the doors opened, Seraphina found herself in what looked like a military command center—banks of monitors displaying surveillance feeds from across London, communication equipment that could have run a small war, and enough weapons to outfit a private army.
"Welcome to Blackwood Station Alpha," Damien said with obvious pride. "One of twelve secure facilities we've established across the city."
"Twelve?" Seraphina stared at the sophisticated setup. "How did you build all this without me knowing?"
"You've been busy saving the world. I've been busy making sure we have the resources to keep doing it." He moved to the central command console, where MacLeod's voice was crackling through multiple communication channels.
"Sir, building is secure. All hostiles eliminated or retreated. Civilian casualties are minimal—three people with minor injuries from falling glass, but nothing serious."
"And Pemberton?"
"Gone, sir. Slipped away in the confusion, along with about a dozen other high-value targets who were notably absent from the casualty reports."
Seraphina felt cold fury settle in her chest. "They used innocent people as cover for a military operation. Those guests—most of them had nothing to do with our investigations."
"Most," Damien agreed. "But not all. I counted at least twenty people in that room who've been on our watch list for months. People who've managed to stay just ahead of our investigations."
"You think they're organizing?"
"I think tonight was a recruitment meeting disguised as a charity auction." He pulled up financial records on one of the monitors, showing a complex web of donations and transfers. "Every person who bid on an auction item tonight was making a contribution to something called the Pemberton Foundation for Cultural Preservation."
"Cultural preservation?" Seraphina studied the numbers, seeing patterns that made her stomach clench. "That's a lot of money for preserving culture."
"Especially when you consider that the foundation has never actually preserved any culture. No grants, no projects, no public activities." Damien's smile was sharp as winter. "But they have been making very large payments to private security firms, legal entities in tax haven countries, and something called Meridian Consulting."
"Meridian..." Seraphina felt recognition tickle at the edge of her memory. "I've seen that name before."
"You should have. They're the company that provided security for the Westbrook estate. And the safe house where Isabel was tortured. And, interestingly, the building maintenance contract for this very auction house."
The implications hit her like a physical blow. "They've been watching us. Learning our patterns, our security protocols, our methods."
"While building a coalition of everyone we've threatened." Damien pulled up more files—photographs, financial records, communication intercepts. "Pemberton hasn't been hiding from us, Seraphina. He's been recruiting our enemies."
On the screens, she could see faces she recognized. Politicians whose corruption they'd exposed, business leaders whose illegal activities had been brought to light, criminals who'd escaped justice only to find themselves hunted by the Marcus Kane Foundation.
"How many?" she asked quietly.
"At least forty confirmed members, probably twice that many in supporting roles. Enough money to fund a small war, enough political connections to make life very difficult for anyone who opposes them, and enough motivation to see us both dead."
Seraphina sank into a chair, the magnitude of the threat finally hitting her. They'd been so focused on individual cases, on bringing justice to specific crimes, that they'd failed to see the larger pattern emerging.
"We created this," she said suddenly. "By going after them one by one, we gave them a reason to band together."
"We gave them a common enemy," Damien corrected. "There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like we've managed to unite every corrupt, criminal, and morally flexible person in Britain against us."
"Not just Britain." Damien pulled up a world map dotted with red markers. "We've been tracking similar organizations in France, Germany, Switzerland, the Cayman Islands. This is going international, Seraphina."
She stared at the map, seeing the scope of what they were facing. What had started as personal revenge for her father's murder had grown into something that threatened to consume everything they'd built.
"Maybe they're right," she said quietly.
"About what?"
"About us being too dangerous. Maybe we have pushed too hard, too fast. Maybe the world isn't ready for the kind of justice we're trying to provide."
Damien was beside her in an instant, his hands framing her face with gentle insistence. "Look at me," he commanded, and she met his pale gray eyes. "Do you remember why we started this?"
"To clear my father's name."
"And after we did that? Why did we keep going?"
Seraphina thought about the faces she'd seen in their files—victims of fraud, families destroyed by corruption, innocents who'd been sacrificed for profit margins and political convenience.
"Because someone had to," she said softly.
"Because someone had to," he agreed. "And now, because someone has to stop the people who are organizing to make sure no one ever tries again."
"Even if it means war?"
"Especially if it means war." His thumbs traced across her cheekbones, and she could see her own determination reflected in his expression. "We didn't choose this fight, Seraphina. But we're going to finish it."
Before she could respond, alarms began blaring throughout the command center. MacLeod's voice crackled through the communications system, urgent and professional:
"Sir, we have multiple problems. Detective Inspector Chen's car was just bombed in Westminster. Michael Ashford is missing from his flat, signs of a struggle. And Isabel..." Her voice faltered for a moment. "Isabel Ashford is in hospital. Someone tried to poison her at a restaurant in Covent Garden."
The room went silent except for the hum of electronic equipment and the sound of Seraphina's heart hammering against her ribs.
"Casualties?" Damien asked, his voice deadly calm.
"Chen is alive but critical. Michael's status unknown. Isabel is stable but unconscious."
"They're eliminating our allies," Seraphina realized. "Anyone who helped us, anyone who testified, anyone who—"
She stopped, a horrible thought occurring to her. "Damien, who else knows about our secure facilities?"
His face went white. "Only our inner circle. MacLeod, Henderson, Chen, the Ashfords..."
"And if they have Michael..."
They stared at each other in the kind of silence that preceded either victory or catastrophe. Around them, the command center's monitors showed a city under siege—emergency services responding to multiple incidents, news broadcasts reporting on the auction house attack, social media flooding with speculation about the Marcus Kane Foundation's role in the violence.
"MacLeod," Damien said into his comm, "initiate Protocol Seven. All facilities, all personnel, full defensive posture. And get me everything we have on Pemberton's current location."
"Sir, Protocol Seven means—"
"It means we're officially at war," Seraphina finished, standing and checking her weapons. "It means we stop playing defense and start hunting the people who think they can terrorize innocents to get to us."
"Seraphina—"
"No." She turned to face him, and he saw something in her expression that made him take an involuntary step back. "They want to know what happens when they threaten our people? They're about to find out."
She moved to the weapons locker, selecting items with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd learned that violence was sometimes the only language power understood.
"Where are you going?" Damien asked, though he was already arming himself to follow her.
"To remind Lord Pemberton and his new friends why the devil's queen is not someone you want as an enemy."
As alarms continued to blare and reports flooded in of attacks across the city, Seraphina felt the last vestiges of the scared scholarship girl finally die. In her place stood something harder, colder, infinitely more dangerous.
They wanted a war?
They were about to get one.