THE MAFIA BOSS CLAIMED ME AT HIS RIVAL'S GALA AFTER MY FIANCÉ PUBLICLY PROPOSED TO AN HEIRESS—BUT AS WE WALKED OUT, DANIEL FELL TO HIS KNEES AND BEGGED, “MR. MERCER, PLEASE DON'T TAKE THE TRUE FOUNDER'S DAUGHTER.”

The River Sawmill was a sprawling, historic industrial compound situated on the roaring, white-water rapids of the Pigeon River, right on the border between Minnesota and Canada.

Massive stacks of raw pine timber towered thirty feet high along the riverbanks, surrounded by rusted iron cranes, heavy conveyor belts, and abandoned processing sheds.

By 3:30 AM, our tactical convoy arrived at the perimeter of the sawmill, running under blackout night-vision protocol.

The storm had turned into a howling northern gale, freezing sleet whipping across the windshields as our armored Suburbans encircled the compound.

Through the high-resolution thermal imaging feeds on our dashboard, twelve armed heat signatures were visible patrolling the perimeter fences, while another six guarded a high-speed offshore smuggling boat docked at the river pier.

“Victor Cross is inside the main administrative office on the second floor of the mill,” Matteo reported, tracing the glowing red icons on his tablet. “He has five personal bodyguards armed with military-grade assault rifles.”

“We do not let that boat touch open water,” Nathaniel commanded, pulling his customized tactical carbine from the weapons rack and checking the optical sight.

He turned to me, reaching out to adjust the collar of the heavy Kevlar vest he had insisted I wear beneath my winter coat.

“Clara, you stay inside the command vehicle with Matteo’s rear guard,” Nathaniel instructed, his eyes locking onto mine with fierce, protective urgency.

I shook my head firmly, gripping the compact 9mm pistol he had given me.

“No, Nathaniel,” I said, my voice steady and unwavering. “Victor Cross murdered my father and tried to poison my life. I am not hiding in a truck while you fight my battles. Arthur Blackridge’s daughter walks into that mill with you.”

Nathaniel stared at me for two breathless seconds. A slow, breathtaking smile of absolute, fiery respect broke across his rugged features.

“Then stay behind my left shoulder,” he commanded softly. “And shoot anything that raises a barrel.”

We breached the compound in a synchronized, devastating strike.

Flashbang grenades illuminated the industrial sheds in blinding white bursts. Nathaniel and his operators swept through the timber stacks with terrifying, military precision, neutralizing the perimeter sentries before they could raise an alarm.

We reached the heavy steel doors of the main sawmill.

Nathaniel kicked the doors open with a concussive crash.

Inside, the cavernous mill was filled with the deafening roar of the river churning beneath the floorboards and the heavy smell of damp sawdust, motor oil, and cordite.

At the far end of the catwalk, standing beside an open industrial safe, was Baron Victor Cross.

He was sixty-five years old, possessing the arrogant, aristocratic features of his daughter Madeline, wearing a heavy fur-trimmed tactical parka over his tailored suit, clutching an assault rifle in his hands.

Beside him stood three surviving mercenaries, their weapons pointed down toward the central conveyor line.

“MERCER!” Victor Cross roared over the thunder of the river. “You think you can corner me in my own mill?! I built this border! I have two patrol boats waiting on the Canadian side!”

“Your patrol boats were seized by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police twenty minutes ago, Victor!” Nathaniel’s voice boomed through the steel rafters like thunder. “Marcus Reeves signed a full confession detailing your C4 bomb on Arthur’s plane!”

Victor’s face twisted into an expression of feral, psychotic rage. He raised his assault rifle, aiming directly toward Nathaniel’s position.

“I should have killed that bastard’s daughter twenty years ago!” Victor screamed, squeezing the trigger.

Automatic gunfire tore through the sawmill, shredding the wooden timbers, throwing showers of sawdust and sparks across the catwalk.

Nathaniel returned fire with lethal, surgical precision, cutting down the two mercenaries flanking Victor in a three-round burst.

Victor scrambled backward along the metal catwalk, heading toward the emergency fire escape leading down to the river pier.

I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.

I vaulted onto the industrial conveyor belt, sprinting through the sawdust clouds, cutting off Victor’s escape route at the catwalk junction.

Victor burst through the door, raised his weapon toward me, but he was half a second too slow.

I leveled my 9mm with both hands, disengaged the safety, and fired twice.

*BANG! BANG!*

The two rounds struck Victor squarely in his right shoulder and knee.

The massive baron stumbled with a roar of agony, his rifle clattering over the railing, tumbling fifty feet down into the churning, black rapids of the river below.

Victor collapsed onto his back on the metal grating, clutching his bleeding shoulder, staring up in sheer, paralyzed horror as I stepped out from the shadows, the smoking pistol held steady in my hands.

“The... the payroll clerk...?” Victor wheezed, blood bubbling from his lips.

“The daughter of Arthur Blackridge,” I corrected, my voice colder than the freezing sleet pouring through the broken windows.

Nathaniel stepped up beside me, his broad arm wrapping securely around my waist, his weapon aimed directly between Victor’s eyes.