That afternoon Leila was waiting for him in wane, as Tom got distracted. His boss decided to pay an unexpected visit. The winter sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a soft glow through the tinted windows of Tom’s high-tech office when Mikhail Grossman decided to darken the door. The man loomed like a storm cloud in an Armani suit, his scowl deep enough to hide a weapon. “Evening, Mikhail,” Tom said with the ease of a man greeting an old friend rather than a mafia boss who snaps necks like breadsticks. He wondered whether Mikhail Grossman heard the news about Vlad. Tom leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” “Cut the pleasantries, Tomas,” Grossman growled. His voice was a low rumble, the kind that preceded an earthquake. “You know why I’m here. Your work. The Green Dragon virus—you’re going to hand it over. Now.” Tom chuckled and tapped his fingers on the scratched surface of his desk, where beneath lay layers of encrypted

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Leila pulled up to Christina’s hideaway, the car’s headlights slicing through the frostbitten gloom. The house sat hunched against the snow, a dark silhouette of pine and cold secrets. She’d driven fast—too fast for the icy roads—but when your aunt called with that tone, you didn’t stop to admire the scenery. Inside, the room was a furnace. The black iron stove glowed like it was working overtime, and the wood stacked high in the corner promised it wasn’t getting a break anytime soon. Christina was in her usual spot, a blanket over her knees, looking like the queen of a tiny, crumbling empire. Her eyes, though, were sharp and on point, pinning Leila like a hawk spotting prey. “Lock the door,” Christina said. No hello, no pleasantries. Leila did as she was told, the click of the deadbolt echoing louder than it should. “What’s going on?” she asked, pulling off her gloves. She kept her tone light, but her gut was doing flips. Christina didn’t answer right away. Instead, she pulled

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The snow was still falling when Leila pulled the threadbare quilt tighter around her shoulders and glanced over at the notebook lying open on the low table. It looked innocent enough, the cracked leather and yellowed pages giving it the vibe of something that ought to be filled with long-forgotten recipes or notes on which fertilizer worked best for dahlias. But inside she found something else —a mess of Gothic architecture sketches, topographical diagrams and hastily written notes that looked like the fevered scribbling of a medieval cartographer gone mad.“That’s remarkable. Where did you find it?” Christina asked with a notch of suspicion.“Here, in the chalet, in that hidden place I’ve told you about. Wolfie and I were saving the owl that managed to get in through the broken attic window.”Christina leaned closer to the lantern’s dim light, tracing the hasty ink sketch with her finger. The combination of drawings, faint script and crude shapes made the page look like a treasure ma

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Nosy Dick—or rather, Agent Richard Jones—sat at Christina’s Black Forest table, stripping off his black leather gloves like he was settling in for afternoon tea. Snow dripped off his blue puffer coat in mournful little puddles. Wolfie eyed him suspiciously from her spot by the fire, giving the occasional low grumble just to make sure Dick knew where he stood on the guest list.Leila folded her arms and leaned against the 18th century cast iron stove, casually holding the rifle. “You scared the light out of us, Mr Jones. Sneaking around in the dark is a great way to get shot, you know. Or mauled. Wolfie’s pretty territorial about her lounge space.”Dick gave her a weary smirk, not bothering to even glance at the unnerved husky. “You’d be amazed how often I get shot at. Mostly by people more competent than you.” He pulled a neat silver flask from his coat pocket and took a swig, pulling his face as if the whisky had punched him in the throat. “Honestly, I didn’t think I’d have to break

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Christina’s eyes went dark, like someone had just switched off the chandelier in a grand ballroom. “My father had an old mask in his collection,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s still somewhere in the attic. He used to tell me this wild story about Nazis organizing a secret expedition to find it. He was pleased to have it, of course. You’re telling me it’s a fake?”Dick Jones gave her a look that could’ve cut through stone. “Not quite. Your piece is a replica—at least three hundred years old, according to Yellen. What bothers me is Yellen came here looking for it and ended up dead. Yet the attic didn’t look disturbed. The mask was still there. That’s what makes my skin itch.”A faint cloud of hesitation swept over Christina’s face, and her eyes misted like fogged glass. “Oh my God. That poor man. I can’t stop thinking about him.”Dick didn’t bother softening his words. “I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s likely Yellen came here to kill you. Somebody else intervened. I’ve

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Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Secret Whisperer: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 25

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