Chapter 67 - 66 A Priceless Gift
Alistair
Warren.
While I’m lying down thinking about all the events of the day, I suddenly remember that in Leo’s report, Warren and Emily met.
Warren operates like a smiling viper in a tailored suit. We’ve been business partners long enough for me to know that it wasn’t a coincidence that he ran into Emily at that restaurant. I’ve also known him long enough to know that he won’t approach her without a motive.
I refuse to let him strike anywhere near my wife.
I watch Emily breathe from my place on the leather sofa. The thick bandages on her hands rest starkly against the white duvet. The room is quiet and cool.
"Stay away from Warren," I say after a few minutes of watching her. My voice stays completely flat, so I don’t sound bitter or jealous. "If possible, do not speak to him for the next year."
Emily shifts slightly under the heavy covers. She does not open her eyes. She does not ask for an explanation or demand a reason. Her breathing simply deepens. She settles into the slow, steady rhythm of genuine sleep. She accepts the warning without a single argument.
Because of that, an idea slowly forms in my head.
I wait twenty minutes until complete silence fills the bedroom.
I stand up and walk into the massive walk-in closet. The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind me. Rows of bespoke charcoal suits and polished oxfords line the walls. I walk to the far end and press my thumb against the base of a brass wall sconce.
A mechanical click sounds behind the drywall. A large section of the mahogany shelving unit slides backward and to the left. The stale smell of gun oil, soldering iron smoke, and cold steel greets me. I step into the hidden chamber.
The concrete walls hold an array of custom firearms and heavy combat gear. A solid steel workbench sits in the exact center of the room. I switch on the small desk lamp. The yellow light spills over scattered metal components, precision tools, and raw leather scraps.
I sit down on the metal stool. I pull a blank notepad closer and grab a graphite pencil.
I need to protect her hands without compromising her trigger finger mobility. I sketch the outline of a fingerless glove. I erase the wrist strap. I widen the palm padding. The design requires absolute precision. She needs protection, but she also needs complete tactile feedback from the weapon.
I stand up and open a heavy storage trunk in the corner. I sort through piles of raw materials. I bypass the cowhide and the synthetic polymers. I pull out a rolled sheet of jet-black lizard skin. The scales are tight, incredibly durable, and completely flexible. I carry the dark hide back to the workbench. I pick up a sharp rotary blade and begin cutting.
The work demands my total focus. I punch the stitching holes with a heavy steel awl. I thread the thick waxed cord through the tough leather. I shape the material to match the exact dimensions of her slender hands. I mold the impact padding over the palm and the base of the knuckles.
Natural light spills through the small ventilation grate near the ceiling. I drop the needle and look up from the finished gloves. It is exactly noon.
I stretch my stiff neck and leave the hidden chamber. The shelving unit seals shut automatically. I walk into the bedroom. The bed is empty. The sheets are perfectly made. She is already downstairs. She is undoubtedly practicing in the cellar armory.
I strip off my clothes and take a fast, scalding shower. I dress in a fresh navy suit and tie my silk cravat.
I walk down the grand staircase. My father, Arthur Sr., stops pacing the marble foyer. His gray hair is perfectly combed back. His severe face registers immediate shock at seeing me home in the middle of the workday. I ignore his questioning stare entirely.
Butler Greyson stands near the front entrance in his immaculate uniform. I hand him a sleek black paper bag containing the finished gloves.
"Deliver this to my wife," I instruct him.
I walk out the heavy front doors and get into my waiting car.
LEO
The sharp crack of a nine-millimeter round echoing against acoustic foam is my absolute favorite sound.
I stand behind the yellow safety line in the cellar armory. Emily Vance stands ten feet away from me. She holds the heavy training pistol with both hands. Her stance is completely solid. Her dark hair is tied back in a messy knot at the base of her neck. Sweat beads on her forehead.
She pulls the trigger. Another loud crack rings out. The paper target, fifty feet away, jerks violently. A small hole appears directly in the center mass of the silhouette.
"Clear," I say.
Emily lowers the weapon. She pops the empty magazine out and sets the hot gun on the metal table. She exhales a long, shaky breath and drops her shoulders.
"Your natural talent is highly unusual," I tell her. "Most beginners anticipate the recoil. They pull their shots low and to the left. You keep your wrists perfectly locked. You have the instincts of a professional shooter."
She turns to look at me. A bright smile breaks across her pale face. "Thank you, Leo. I really appreciate your instruction. You make the mechanics very easy to understand."
I look at her hands. The thick white bandages from last night are already dirty with gray gunpowder residue. Fresh red blood spots seep through the gauze near her knuckles. She hides the pain well, but I see the slight tremble in her fingers. My respect for her spikes. She possesses a rare, raw grit. She refuses to quit even when her body demands a break.
Heavy footsteps echo on the concrete stairs.
Butler Greyson walks into the shooting range. He carries a small black paper bag. He stops a few feet away from the metal table and bows politely.
"Madam,” Greyson says. "Mr. Wolfe requested I deliver this to you before he left for the office."
Emily wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her clean wrist. "He just left? I thought he went to the corporate headquarters hours ago."
"He departed two minutes ago," Greyson replies. He places the bag on the table and walks back up the stairs without another word.
Emily reaches for the bag. I notice the silver emblem printed on the matte black paper. It is a very specific geometric wolf head. My pulse jumps slightly. I recognize that emblem.
Emily pulls out a pair of black, fingerless leather gloves. The sleek lizard skin catches the bright fluorescent light. The craftsmanship is flawless. Thick, protective padding covers the palms. The black stitching is completely seamless.
"These are beautiful," Emily says. She runs her bandaged thumb over the smooth, dark scales. "They will protect my hands perfectly."
"Allow me to see those," I say. My voice comes out much sharper than I intend.
Emily looks surprised. She hands me the left glove without a word.
The exotic leather is incredibly soft. I turn the glove over in my hands. I pull the inner wrist lining outward. I look at the small, square patch sewn deep inside the hem. A distinct, hand-stitched totem rests right above a single embroidered word.
*Adolf.*
I stare at the signature. I swallow hard. The air in the room suddenly feels very thin.
"What is it, Leo?" Emily asks. She tips her head to the side. "Is something wrong with them?"
"No," I say. I hand the glove back to her. My fingers feel stiff. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with them. Please put them on."
Adolf is a legendary figure in the global underground weapons market. His custom gear is priceless. Mercenaries, assassins, and elite military operatives spend years trying to track down a single piece of his work. No one knows his true identity. He is a phantom who supplies the most lethal men on the planet.
I look at the dark staircase leading up to the main house. Alistair Wolfe just handed his wife a custom masterpiece crafted by a ghost. I fold my hands behind my back and stare at the perforated paper target. I finally understand exactly who I am working for.