Special Agent Wayne's Pov
Wayne sat in the dim back corner of the hangar, the steel walls echoing with the faint hum of generators. A single floodlight buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows over the concrete floor. He had chosen the location deliberately, private, impossible to eavesdrop.
General Pierce arrived without an escort, trench coat flaring behind him as he strode in, jaw set with fury. His eyes were bloodshot, sleepless.
Wayne stepped forward, holding out the folder. He didn't speak until Pierce ripped it open, scanning the surveillance stills, the witness accounts, the analysis reports.
And then he froze.
The still frame of Captain Brooklyn Grant leaving Gabriella Hamilton's bedroom burned like a brand.
Pierce's nostrils flared, his voice rising into a snarl. "Brooklyn Grant? She killed my daughter?" He slammed the folder shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "I'll make her pay for this, I'm going tear her world apart."
Wayne kept his tone even, measured. "I think she's also tied to Michael Gray's murder. The detectives found correspondence linking Gabriella's files to him. It's all circling her."
Pierce's hands clenched into fists. His composure broke, voice trembling with rage. "Round up some men. Trusted ones."
Wayne tilted his head. "For what?"
"Just do it, Wayne!" Pierce roared, spit catching in his throat.
Wayne didn't argue. He only gave a curt nod and took out his phone.
"I'll drop you a location. Get some men and repay your debt there."
He ended the call.
The Hale household was quiet that evening. A calm, domestic silence. The kind of silence that made what was about to come almost sacrilegious.
Grace stood in the kitchen, humming under her breath as she chopped vegetables. A pot simmered on the stove, steam fogging the window above the sink. Her hands moved with the practiced rhythm of a mother who had cooked this meal a thousand times before.
Upstairs, Richard was in the shower, the hiss of hot water drowning the outside world.
Grace paused, knife hovering above the cutting board. She heard it... a faint creak across the wooden floor in the hall.
Her brow furrowed. "Richard?" she called softly. But he didn't answer. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped toward the doorway.
The sound came again, deliberate and heavy.
"Richard?" she called louder this time, moving slowly toward the living room. Upstairs, Richard was whistling under the shower spray, deaf to her voice.
Grace's breath quickened. The air felt colder suddenly. Her fingers tightened around the dish towel as she whispered, "Who's there?"
Then she saw a figure at the far end of the hall.
Her breath caught in her throat. "Oh God..."
But when she spun to retreat, another figure was behind her.
The first knife came quick, sinking into her side with a wet crunch. She gasped, eyes wide, hands clawing at the wound. Another thrust... her abdomen. She screamed, staggering backward.
Then the second man grabbed her hair, yanking her head back, exposing her throat. The blade punched into her chest again and again, each stab merciless, tearing flesh, splitting ribs. Eleven times in brutal, mechanical rhythm.
Her screams became gargles, fading into silence as her body crumpled onto the tiles, a pool of red expanding around her. The warm smell of iron filled the air, smothering the scent of food on the stove.
The men didn't linger.
Upstairs, the bathroom door burst open. Steam poured out, filling the hall. Richard, naked and dripping, staggered back in shock, fists instinctively raised.
"What the hell..." His eyes darted past the intruders. "Where's Grace? What did you..."
One of the masked men stepped forward, knife in hand dripping blood. "Don't make this hard, old man."
The other chuckled darkly. "She's gone, now it's your turn."
Richard's chest heaved. Rage flared in him, overriding fear. He lunged at the first man, a desperate swing of an aging fist. It connected a crack against the jaw. The man stumbled, cursing.
But the second moved fast, wrapping an arm around Richard's throat, locking him in a chokehold. Richard clawed at the arm, his nails tearing skin but the grip only tightened. His face turned purple, veins bulging.
And then the knife.
Into his ribs, stomach and chest. Blood sprayed the tiles, streaked the steam-slick walls. His knees buckled, body spasming but the blade kept going until his fight drained out, leaving him nothing but weight.
The men dragged him out of the bathroom, leaving a crimson smear across the floor. They hauled him down the stairs, into the living room, where Grace's lifeless body lay in its own spreading pool.
One man crouched, dipping his fingers into the blood, then smeared it across the wall in jagged letters:
IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT.
The other spat on the floor, stepping over Richard's body.
"Message delivered."
Outside, they retrieved weapons from the trunk of their black van. The night erupted with gunfire as they unleashed hell on the Hale's home. Heavy machine guns tore through the siding, windows exploding in showers of glass. Bullets chewed the walls, splintering wood and plaster, shredding furniture inside.
The house lit up with sparks, smoke and chaos. Neighbors ducked, screams echoing down the block, dogs barking wildly as the massacre became a public display.
Rhe time the van peeled away into the night, the Hale's home was nothing but a bleeding carcass walls riddled with holes, furniture shredded, blood sprayed like paint across the inside.
And in the middle of it all, the two bodies. Husband and wife. Slaughtered.
Far away, in his sedan parked beneath a highway overpass, Wayne checked his phone. A live ping appeared on the map, confirming the team's location. His screen lit with a single text:
"It's done. We'll surely hit the news by morning."
Wayne exhaled slowly, leaning back in his seat.