Captured by: Love Or Hatred?

The Hunt Begins

Chapter 9: The Hunt Begins

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Ryan’s POV:

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" I told you… everything… "

I nod once, acknowledging his words without giving anything away.

" You did. "

Relief spreads across his face too quickly, too easily, as if compliance alone was enough to save him. That, more than anything, is the problem with men like him— they mistake obedience for survival.

I rise to my feet and adjust my cuff, smoothing the sleeve of my shirt with deliberate calm, as though this is nothing more than another task completed.

" You should have done that earlier. " I say evenly.

He swallows, his throat working against the fear that has finally settled in.

" So… I can go…? "

I look at him— really look at him— for a brief moment, studying the man who thought he could play a game far beyond his understanding.

For a second, I almost see how he managed to get this far.

Almost.

Then the thought disappears.

" No! " I say simply.

The word lands heavier than anything else in the room, and I watch as his expression collapses under its weight.

" But I— "

" You talked, " I cut in, my tone calm but final. " That was never the deal. "

" No- please -- "

I turn toward the door, already done with him. There’s a pause behind me, followed by the sound of panic breaking through whatever composure he had left.

" Wait— please— I told you everything—please — "

I don’t stop. I don’t turn.

" I said I’d listen, " I reply, my hand already on the door. " I never said I’d spare you. "

The door shuts behind me with a muted thud, sealing Walter inside with whatever remains of him. The air outside feels cleaner, quieter, yet it does nothing to ease the tension tightening within me.

The information he gave me should have brought clarity, but instead it lingers, looping back in fragments that refuse to fall into place.

Three men inside my logistics division, placed carefully enough to go unnoticed— that is the problem. I walk down the corridor with measured steps, the faint echo against the concrete walls matching the steady way my mind begins to reassess everything I thought I had under control.

Every delayed shipment, every minor inconsistency, every report that felt slightly off begins to connect, forming a pattern far more deliberate than coincidence.

And I missed it.

That realization settles deeper than anger, sharper than frustration. It feels like a flaw.

When I push open the door to my office in the D Wing of my mansion— a restricted section reserved for my illegal operations, hidden behind the first three wings and maintained in a deliberately shabby state to avoid drawing attention— the familiar space greets me with its usual order and silence.

However, right now— something inside it feels compromised.

Zack is already inside when I enter, standing near the desk with a file in hand. His posture straightens slightly as he senses the shift in the room. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.

" He talked. " I say, walking past him and setting my watch down on the desk with more force than necessary.

Zack nods once. " Any names? "

" Three. " I reply, my voice calm but edged with something colder.

" Logistics division. Mid-level access. Enough to reroute shipments without drawing immediate attention… "

I pause briefly, letting the weight of it settle before I add, " Samuel. Rick. Paul. "

Zack’s reaction is immediate this time. His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing as the names register.

" Paul? " He repeats, disbelief slipping through. " He’s been with us for years. You promoted him yourself. "

" I remember, " I say, my voice calm, almost detached.

" I also remember why I trusted him. That’s what makes this… disappointing. "

The words settle into the room, carrying more weight than their quiet delivery suggests. For a brief moment, neither of us speaks, but the air between us shifts— heavier, sharper— like the realization has finally taken form and refuses to be ignored.

Zack studies me carefully, as if measuring how far this goes beyond a simple breach.

" And what about Samuel and Rick? " He asks, his tone quieter now, more deliberate. " They handled internal routes. Clean records. No flags.

" No visible ones, " I correct, my gaze steady. " Men like him don’t get caught by making mistakes. They get caught when someone above them decides they’re expendable. "

Zack exhales slowly, taking it in, before looking at me again, his expression sharpening with realization. " That explains the delays, " He says.

I shake my head once, controlled and deliberate.

" No, " I reply, my voice dropping slightly. " Delays are just the surface. What this explains is how long they’ve been inside… and how comfortably they’ve been operating without drawing a single question. "

" It explains more than delays, " I correct, turning toward him, my gaze locking onto his. " It explains why something felt wrong long before it became visible… slips from more than one hand. A flaw. "

The last word hangs there, quieter than the rest, but heavier.

I don’t elaborate.

I don’t need to.

Zack watches me for a moment, long enough to understand that this isn’t just a breach— it’s something deeper, something I’m not putting into words. As always, he doesn’t press. Instead, he shifts.

The file is placed on the desk and opened without hesitation, his focus already moving toward damage control.

" We can isolate them within the hour, " He says, his tone steady, professional.

" Quietly. No external noise. "

I don’t respond immediately. Because the problem isn’t isolation. The problem is that it happened at all.

My gaze drifts past him, unfocused for a moment as the pieces begin to rearrange themselves again— faster now, sharper, cutting through everything I thought I had contained.

More than one hand.

Not random.

Not careless.

Deliberate.

And I let it pass.

That realization tightens something inside me, controlled at first, then sharper.

I should have seen it.

The signs weren’t hidden—they were placed. Measured. Designed to be overlooked unless someone was already looking for them.

And I wasn’t.

That— is my mistake.

My hand moves before I consciously decide to act, fingers closing around the paperweight resting on the desk. The weight feels solid, grounded, something real to hold onto for a second— before I let it go.

The motion is quick, deliberate.

The paperweight crashes into the glass panel beside us, shattering it on impact. The sharp c***k cuts through the room as fragments scatter outward, the clean surface breaking into jagged lines before giving way completely.

A heavy silence settles over the room, sharp and unavoidable in its aftermath. Zack doesn’t move, doesn’t react, but I can see it in the way his focus tightens— he’s already assessing, already recalculating.

Of course he notices. He always does. I don’t act without reason, and I don’t lose control unless something has already gone wrong.

I exhale slowly, my jaw tightening for a fraction of a second before I straighten, adjusting my cuff as if restoring control through habit alone.

" Isolation isn’t enough, " I say finally, my voice steady again, though colder now. " Find the source. I want to know who’s above them. "

Zack nods once, offering no questions and no hesitation, because he understands the shift immediately.

This is no longer damage control; it’s a calculated response to a breach that needs to be traced, contained, and removed at its source. This isn’t a mistake

This is a hunt.

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