The Daisy

6. New Target

The sharp, crystalline Ting of her secondary burner phone pierced the lingering morning quiet of the apartment, a jarring contrast to the soft rustle of bedsheets Calvin had left behind.

Nancy’s eyes snapped open. The sleepy, contented haze evaporated in a fraction of a second, replaced instantly by the ice-cold focus of an apex predator. She rolled over, her hand sliding under the edge of the mattress with practiced, fluid motion to retrieve the encrypted device.

The screen glowed in the dim morning light, a message from Lucius.

“Daisy, the syndicate has listed a new target. Info sent on FEN”

Her thumb moved across the glass screen with swift, mechanical precision, tapping out a single word.

“Copy.”

Moments later, she was sitting cross-legged at her minimalist drafting desk, the sleek monitor casting a pale blue luminescence over her face. She bypassed the standard web routing, entering the biometric keys required to access FEN—the military-grade, heavily encrypted dark-web network reserved exclusively for the syndicate’s elite operatives.

The interface loaded with a low, thrumming hum, displaying the dossier in stark, high-contrast typography. Her sharp eyes scanned the scrolling text, locking onto every critical data point:

•

Target: Mausor Alven

Age: 43

Front Operation: Elsona Real Estate Company (Unverified/Illegal shell corporation)

State Status: Protected under high-level state government immunity

Offenses: Multi-million-dollar international money laundering, asset acquisition via coercion, and systematic financial trafficking routed directly through Elsona holdings.

•

Nancy leaned back slightly in her chair, a slow, calculated breath slipping past her lips as her fingers tapped a rhythmic, silent beat against the edge of the mahogany desk. State protection. That meant standard break-ins were suicide; Alven’s private residential estate in the affluent hills was fortified with private security, biometric locks, and a direct panic button linked straight to corrupt state-level handlers.

For any ordinary operative, Alven would be considered an unapproachable fortress. But for the syndicate’s most lethal ghost, it was simply a more intricate puzzle to solve.

She pulled up the architectural blueprints of Alven’s compound, her eyes narrowing as she mentally mapped out entry vectors, blind spots in the perimeter thermal cameras, and the precise timing of the local police patrols. And then, a sudden, sharp irony struck her like a physical blow.

She glanced toward the doorway leading out of the bedroom, a faint, wry smile touching the corners of her lips.

Wait until Captain Calvin Wallace hears about this.

Her lover—the head of the underground police task force dedicated to dismantling white-collar syndicates and money laundering rings—was currently sitting in a precinct meeting, completely unaware that the state-protected target his department had likely been trying to build a case against for months had just been handed to his girlfriend on an encrypted assassination manifest.

The lines between her two lives weren't just blurring anymore; they were colliding head-on.

With a decisive click, Nancy saved the dossier to a secure, self-destructing file, locked her workstation, and stood up. The game had changed, but for the first time in her career, she wasn't playing alone.

***

The reflection in the full-length mirror presented a picture of domestic tranquility and effortless charm. A simple, sun-bleached white linen dress hung loosely against her frame, falling just above her knees with a subtle, airy grace that suggested lazy Sunday afternoons spent browsing farmers' markets or lingering in local bookstores. Her makeup was applied with a feather-light touch—a hint of tinted lip balm, a light dusting of translucent powder to catch the morning light, and naturally brushed brows that framed her eyes with innocent softness.

Draped over the crook of her arm was a standard woven canvas grocery bag, complete with a frayed cotton handle and a faint smudge of flour near the base from a past baking attempt. To anyone passing her on the street, she was the epitome of an ordinary suburban resident stepping out for milk, eggs, and fresh basil.

That was the most lethal weapon in her entire arsenal.

Nancy tilted her head, practicing a small, bright, unassuming smile—the kind reserved for friendly neighbors and local cashiers.

There was no trace of the cold, calculating ghost who had deciphered Alven’s architectural blueprints just moments prior, no lingering shadow of the silver wire or the botanical toxins that lived in the hidden compartments of her life. She looked harmless. Fragile, even.

With a soft click, she secured the apartment door behind her and stepped out into the bright morning sunlight of the New South Wales suburbs, blending seamlessly into the hum of everyday life while carrying a death sentence in her canvas bag.

***

The taxi door clicked shut with a muffled, heavy thud, sealing her inside the stale, pine-scented air of the cab. Nancy pulled the woven canvas grocery bag a little tighter against her lap, letting her shoulders slump into a posture of mild, relatable exasperation as she gave the driver the initial address—a quaint, winding residential street nestled on the outer fringe of the northwestern hills, just a few miles shy of Mausor Alven’s heavily fortified compound.

The vehicle pulled away from the curb, sliding smoothly into the mid-morning traffic as the suburban sprawl slowly gave way to sweeping, tree-lined boulevards and sprawling estate properties. The grand, secluded mansions of the northwestern hills sat far back from the main road, concealed behind towering privacy hedges, wrought-iron security gates, and an intricate web of state-of-the-art surveillance hardware.

Alven’s property was the crown jewel of the ridge—a sprawling modern fortress wrapped in tinted bulletproof glass, manicured topiary, and an unyielding perimeter defense.

Ten minutes away from the target zone, Nancy began laying the groundwork for her approach. She let out a soft, dramatic sigh, shifting in her seat and peering out the window with feigned confusion as the houses grew larger and more isolated.

"Um, excuse me, sir?" she asked, her voice carrying that slight, breathless pitch of anxious innocence she perfected whenever she needed to play the part of a disoriented commuter. "Are we... getting close to Glenwood Avenue? My phone lost service back at the last intersection, and these driveways all look completely identical."

The driver, a weathered middle-aged man with his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, glanced back at her reflection and gave a raspy chuckle. "Nah, love, we’re still climbing up toward the ridge. Glenwood’s a couple of turns back down the hill. This here's the private sector—Estate Row. Civilians usually don't come up this far unless they're lost or delivering catering."

"Oh, goodness," Nancy murmured, pressing a slender hand against her collarbone in a flutter of genuine-looking embarrassment. "My client gave me the wrong directions entirely. I’m supposed to drop off some specialty baking supplies for a cooking class near the park, but I must have misread the cross streets. Could you... could you pull over up here by that big stone pillar? Let me just check my physical map before we waste any more fare."

"Sure thing, miss. Give you a minute to sort it out," the driver replied good-naturedly, guiding the sedan toward the sweeping concrete apron of a grand private driveway before easing the car to a gentle halt.

The taxi's engine hummed softly, idling beneath the heavy shade of an ancient eucalyptus tree. Right across the wide, pristine asphalt sat the towering, obsidian-black security gates of Mausor Alven’s compound. Above the iron scrollwork, twin dome-shaped security cameras rotated slowly on automated pivots, sweeping the perimeter every thirty seconds.

Nancy reached into her canvas grocery bag, her fingers deftly brushing past a lightweight multi-tool and a spool of monofilament wire to retrieve a folded paper map. She unfolded it across her knees with a slow, deliberate rustle, playing the part of the helpless, spatially challenged civilian to absolute perfection.

"Let's see here..." she muttered under her breath, turning slightly in her seat so the driver could see her furrowed brow through the mirror. Then, she let out a soft exclamation of frustration, gently tapping the window glass. "Oh, wow. Look at those gardens across the street. Is this... is this the public botanical walkway? My friend mentioned a scenic shortcut through here."

The driver leaned forward, squinting through the windshield at the imposing iron gates and the manicured hedges beyond. "Nah, sweetheart, that's private property. That's the Alven estate. Place is locked down tighter than a federal bank. You don't want to go wandering up there—private security's got a hair-trigger on the motion sensors, and local police patrol this ridge hourly."

"Oh, really? How terrifying!" Nancy gasped, her eyes widening with a masterclass display of wide-eyed shock. "I'm so glad you told me. But... um, honestly, my phone is completely dead, and my GPS won't load the offline grid. Do you mind waiting just two minutes while I hop out and ask the guard at the gate if they can look up the correct address for me on their directory? I’d hate to drive all the way back down only to find out I was one street over."

The driver offered an understanding, sympathetic shrug. "Go on then, make it quick though. The meter's running, but I won't charge you for the idle time while you're asking directions."

"Thank you so much, you're an absolute lifesaver," she breathed, offering a radiant, grateful smile.