SAVING LEONATA

Chapter Eight

Mountain stillness hung over the cabin, a silence so total that it pressed against the windows like snow. As the pines let in the first rays of the day, the wooden floor was covered in long shadows. With the mountains looming like venerable sentries against a drab winter sky, the outside world was painted in shades of gray and white.

Lila came in through the doorway as Regan was already brewing coffee at the kitchen counter. He had been keeping an eye on security procedures and perimeter cameras for hours. Her slight frame was dwarfed by the oversized thermal shirt, and the years were reflected in her tired eyes. Her auburn hair, which she usually wore pulled back in a severe style, now fell loosely around her shoulders.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said in a frighteningly scratchy voice. It wasn't a question.

“I did enough,” he lied while advancing toward her with a steaming mug. The dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed him, but neither acknowledged it.

She did not press. Rather, she grabbed the mug and sipped it slowly. Though it didn't touch the gnawing anxiety coiling behind her ribs, the warmth chased the cold that was still there in her chest. That cold, the one that descends when you realize your entire existence has been based on carefully crafted lies, came from within.

She put the mug down carefully and said, “I need to know about the flash drive”.

Her voice was steady, but her fingers tightened around the ceramic handle. The drive they'd stolen from Lancaster Holdings two nights ago had been burning in her consciousness since their escape. It held answers—about her father, about the mysterious Kingmaker project, about her brother, who was supposedly dead but apparently alive.

Regan nodded, already moving. He moved silently across to the bookshelf that ran the length of the distant wall. The tiny drive was concealed inside a carved-out paperback book called Corporate Immunity, which he took out. Plugging it into a burner laptop, he pulled it between them.

"It's encrypted, but low-tier. "Meant to be found, not hidden," he explained, fingers moving efficiently across the keyboard. "Someone wanted this information accessible."

She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing against his as the encryption barrier fell away. "A whistleblower?"

"Maybe." His expression remained neutral, but there was a tightness around his eyes. "Or a trap."

She watched as folders blinked into place. The drive had a minimalist interface: just one directory marked KINGMAKER/. Inside, five folders: Schematics, Research Logs, Financials, Surveillance Voice Logs.

"Let's start with Research," Regan suggested.

They opened the folder, and the screen was populated with dozens of files. Clinical naming conventions like Compliance Neuromapping Phase 2 and Override Conditioning Protocols – Confidential sent a chill down Lila's spine. There were PDF documents, spreadsheets, and video files—all meticulously organized by date and subject number.

Lila's brow furrowed as she scanned through one PDF. "This isn't just data. These are—"

"Human trials," Regan finished grimly. He scrolled through pages of clinical observations. "They were testing behavior modification using a mix of tech and pharmacology."

He pointed to a section labeled "Neurological Response Patterns." The technical language couldn't disguise the horror beneath—subjects exposed to electromagnetic frequencies while administered chemical compounds, their responses tracked in cold detail.

Lila stared at a chart labeled Subject Stability – 28-Day Cycle. The notes detailed how a cocktail of frequency exposure and micro-dosed inhibitors could "suppress dissent" and "amplify suggestibility." Test subjects showed increased compliance to directives, decreased resistance to authority figures, and reduced emotional response to ethical dilemmas.

"They weren't studying this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her finger traced over a section describing "willing corporate volunteers." "They were deploying it."

"Not just for enemies," Regan said, navigating to another document. "This reads like they were using it in-house. To make executives more... loyal."

"Conditioned," she whispered, the word like ash in her mouth.

"Think of it like corporate obedience training—on a neurological level. Lancaster Holdings wasn't just developing this as a product. They were using it on their people."

The realization hung in the air between them. If her father had been willing to do this to his executives, what would he do to a daughter who threatened his control?

Regan clicked into the Financials folder next. There were spreadsheets, routing data, and transactional logs. Shell companies laid five deep, each more obscure than the last. Names she recognized—defense contractors, black-site research firms. Funds were laundered through a seemingly legitimate subsidiary called "Horizon Wellness Initiatives."

"Nine million," Lila murmured, eyes widening at the figures. "Just in the last quarter."

"And look at these recipients," Regan said, pointing to coded beneficiaries. "Military designations. Government entities using cutout accounts."

"Here," Regan said, indicating a redacted ledger dated three years earlier. "That's a signature authorization line. Guess who approved it?"

He zoomed in. The faded stamp showed: Dominic Lancaster – CEO.

Lila's breath hitched. She gripped the mug tightly until her knuckles turned white. Before her eyes any hope that her father had been duped and was not aware of what was going on vanished.

Regan leaned back, looking at her face. "He wasn't just aware of Kingmaker. He built it. This was his vision from the beginning."

"This wasn't about expansion," she said, her voice hollow. "This wasn't about market share. This was about control."

"He wanted to create a leadership class immune to rebellion. Or empathy."

"Perfect corporate soldiers," she added. "No questions, no moral complications. Just obedience."

Lila exhaled, trembling. "And I was the outlier."

"The risk," Regan confirmed, his voice softening. "You asked questions. You had principles. That made you dangerous."

They fell silent. The coffee had grown cold in their mugs. Then Regan clicked into the Surveillance folder.

Empty.

"What?" Lila blinked, leaning closer to the screen.

Regan refreshed it. Tried hidden files. Checked for encrypted containers. Nothing.

"This was full," he muttered, fingers flying across the keyboard. "The indexing shows over 400MB of content. It was wiped remotely."

"But this laptop isn't even connected—"

"It doesn't have to be," he cut in. "If the drive synced with a cloud terminal before it got to you, someone could've ghosted the rest. Selective remote deletion."

"Someone who has access to my father's old network?" she asked, though she already suspected the answer.

Regan's expression was grave. "Or someone who is your father."

Lila backed away from the counter, eyes wide. "He's still watching?"

"If he knows you have this drive," Regan said slowly, "he won't stop until it's back in his hands—or destroyed. And he'll eliminate anyone who's seen its contents."

"He tried to kill me once," she said, arms wrapped around herself. "He used me as bait to flush out dissenters."

"And now you're the biggest threat to his operation," Regan added. "You have evidence. You have knowledge. And most dangerously, you have nothing left to lose."

Lila paced across the cabin's main room. "He's already taken everything. My name, my family, my future. What else is there to take?"

Regan stood and crossed the room, stopping close enough that she could feel his presence. His eyes met hers, steady and certain.

"We still have the Voice Logs," he said. "And there's one with your name on it."

She stilled, her breath catching. She'd heard enough of her father's lies. But perhaps in these recordings, meant to be heard only after his death, there would be truth.

"Play it," she said, her voice firmer than she felt.

They returned to the laptop. Regan clicked on the file marked Dom_Final_03.mp4. The voice was distinct but the audio crackled.

" If you're listening to this, something has either gone wrong… or perfectly according to plan. That depends on perspective."

Lila stood frozen beside Regan.

"Kingmaker was never meant to be a legacy. It was a necessity. A firewall. We're surrounded by chaos, Leonata. Weakness. Everyone wants their say, their feelings, their justice. But justice doesn't build empires. Control does."

Regan shot her a glance at the use of her full name—a name she never used.

"You asked questions. You saw cracks. That made you dangerous. Sentiment always is. I warned you to stop digging. You didn't. So now, you inherit the cost of knowledge."

Dominic's voice hardened, any pretense of paternal concern evaporating.

"If anything happens to me, I need the legacy to survive. And you, child, were always too fragile to carry it."

The audio ended in cold silence.

Lila stared at the screen. "I wasn't even his daughter in that message. Just another variable. A problem to be solved."

Regan stepped closer, his voice tight with quiet anger. "He planned to kill you, Lila. Those weren't idle threats—those were contingency plans."

"But why now? Why not just sideline me—cut me out? He had the power to destroy my reputation. Why risk murder?"

"Because you had the truth," Regan said, his hand resting on her shoulder. "And truth is the only thing that can break control. You weren't just a whistleblower—you were proof that his methods weren't foolproof. That conscience could survive conditioning."

She looked up at him. "He thought I was immune."

"And that made you the most dangerous person in his world."

"So what do we do?"

Regan opened a hidden panel in the wall beside the fireplace. From within, he pulled out a burner phone and satellite transceiver. Military grade, untraceable.

"We go deeper. We find out who else is tied to this. And then we burn it all down," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "Starting with finding your brother."

The mention of her brother—alive, captive, possibly subjected to those horrors—strengthened her resolve.

But before she could respond, the transceiver in Regan's hand pinged with an urgent alert. Regan frowned, tapped the secure authentication sequence, and opened it.

A single sentence glowed on the screen: MELISSA COMPROMISED. LOCATION BREACHED. GET OUT.

Regan's blood ran cold. Melissa was his contact—the only person who knew their location. If she'd been compromised...

He turned to Lila, all tenderness gone, replaced by the cold efficiency of survival. "Go bag. Now."

Lila didn't ask questions. Years of training kicked in. She grabbed the drive and laptop, tucking both into a waterproof sleeve, then grabbed her jacket. Regan was already at the door, gun drawn, eyes scanning the treeline.

"How much time?" she asked, her voice steady despite the adrenaline.

"Minutes. Maybe less," he replied, checking his weapon. "The north exit. Through the cellar."

She nodded, pulling on her boots with swift movements. Her weapon was already holstered at her waist—she hadn't removed it even to sleep.

And then—

A crunch. Not from snow. From gravel. The distinct sound of a tactical boot on the path leading to the cabin.

They weren't alone anymore.

Regan's eyes met hers. No words needed. They had done this dance before—would do it again if they survived.

The hunt was on.