ENFORCER’S REVENGE

CHAPTER FOUR

Abby’s POV

My heart wouldn’t settle.

It had been hours—maybe less—but the weight of knowing someone else was about to be killed and I couldn’t do anything to stop it sat on my chest like a boulder. The knowledge pressed against my lungs, making it hard to breathe, let alone think straight. My thoughts spun like a carousel, looping the same helpless question over and over:

How do you stop a murderer when you’re locked inside his house?

I paced the living room restlessly, each step landing too heavy, like my limbs were no longer mine. The walls seemed to shrink around me, suffocating with their silence and spotless perfection. Everything about this place was curated, calculated—like the man who owned it. Even the air felt staged.

I crossed in front of the windows, barely resisting the urge to scream into the street below—not that anyone would hear me. Not in this neighborhood. Not behind double-paned glass that didn’t open.

I stopped and stared at the blank TV screen, my reflection a ghost of myself. Pale. Sleepless. Wearing someone else’s oversized sweatshirt. I didn’t recognize the girl in the glass.

Then, on instinct, I grabbed the remote. My fingers wrapped tightly around the plastic like it was a weapon—like I could use it to fight back somehow. Maybe, just maybe, something on the news would tell me he hadn’t killed again. Maybe there’d be a warning, an arrest, a miracle.

I turned it on.

Flicked through one news channel.

Then another.

Then five more.

Each station bled with headlines, but none of them brought the reassurance I craved.

“CEO GRAHAM MICKELSON ASSASSINATED DURING PUBLIC ADDRESS.”

“STILL NO SUSPECTS IN MICKELSON SHOOTING.”

“WITNESSES DESCRIBE PANIC—‘IT WAS LIKE A MOVIE’.”

His face. Everywhere. Smiling in headshots. Caught mid-speech before the bullet hit. There was even footage—blurry and distant—of him collapsing to the ground while people screamed and scattered.

I stared at the screen until my fingers went numb.

Not one mention of Michel Johnson.

Not yet.

The remote slipped from my hand and hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. I leaned back into the couch, numb, cold despite the heat crawling under my skin.

It was happening again. And I was powerless to stop it.

I reached up and pressed my palms to my temples, trying to hold myself together, trying not to unravel. But it was like screaming inside a vacuum—loud in my mind, silent everywhere else.

When I finally stood again, I wasn’t even sure where I was going. I just moved because staying still felt worse. Like I’d sink into the floor and disappear if I didn’t do something.

“CEO Assassinated in Broad Daylight—No Suspects Identified.”

“FBI Issues Statement on Graham Mickelson’s Mysterious Death.”

“Graham Mickelson: A Public Figure With Private Secrets?”

But nothing about Michel.

No mention of Johnson. No warning. No time.

Frustrated, I turned the TV off and stood, my legs stiff from sitting so tensely. I didn’t know what I expected—that somehow the screen would scream out a clue, or someone would appear to help me stop this madness. But the silence of the house remained unchanged. Heavy. Watching.

I made my way back upstairs, drawn to the room I dreaded most.

The wall of names.

The ledger of death.

I stepped inside and walked past the board with the circled faces until I noticed a desk pushed to the far side of the room. A manila folder sat neatly atop it, as if waiting for me.

I approached it with trembling hands.

The folder was thick. I flipped it open and a photograph slipped out, fluttering to the floor. My fingers moved before I could think, picking it up carefully.

It was him. Graham Mickelson.

Alive. Smiling. Probably unaware someone was following his every move.

The contents of the file were deeply unsettling—clinical, cold, efficient.

Name: Graham

Surname: Mickelson

Age: 50

Hair: Sandy blond

Eyes: Black

Blood Type: AS

Position: CEO of Graham Industries

Family: Two wives, four children

Status: Deceased

Objective: Revenge

It felt like reading a case study for a science project. But it wasn’t science. It was murder.

I dropped the file, my hands already shaking, and reached for another one—Michel Johnson’s.

The picture on the inside sent a chill down my spine.

A smiling man, mid-forties, tall, broad-shouldered, surrounded by a family that looked genuinely happy.

Name: Michel

Surname: Johnson

Age: 45

Hair: Black

Eyes: Topaz

Blood Type: AA

Family: Wife and seven children

Status: Alive (for now)

The thought of those kids losing their father made my stomach turn.

I closed the file with trembling hands, placing it back on the table before my breathing became too rapid to control. I couldn’t stay in that room any longer. I couldn’t bear the weight of their faces staring back at me.

I backed away from the files, practically stumbling out of the room.

Back in the hallway, the walls felt tighter. Like they were closing in.

My skin was clammy. My clothes clung to me. My back prickled with sweat and my throat tightened like I couldn’t get enough air.

My head spun. My pulse was racing.

I was overheating.

The panic attack hit me like a wave, knocking the strength out of my knees.

I staggered down the stairs, gripping the rail like a lifeline, and forced myself to the only place I thought I could find relief—his room. The bathroom door was open, and I didn’t hesitate.

I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes with shaky hands, letting them fall in a heap beside the tub. I didn’t bother adjusting the water temperature. I just stepped in.

The water was cold. Shockingly so. It hit my skin like needles, but I welcomed it. I needed to feel something other than dread.

My breathing slowed, but I couldn’t stop shivering. My limbs trembled violently and I hugged myself in the tub, silently begging for the panic to pass.

Then, footsteps.

I froze.

The bathroom door opened.

Before I could scream, a warm towel wrapped around my shoulders and strong arms lifted me from the tub like I weighed nothing.

He carried me to the bed—his bed—and tucked the blankets around me.

“You’re sick,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with something unfamiliar—concern?

I blinked up at him, too dazed to protest.

“I’ll be back.”

The door shut.

Moments later, it opened again.

He returned with a bowl of water, a towel, and a small pill bottle balanced in one hand. His footsteps were silent against the floor, practiced—deliberate. Not rushed, not hesitant. He moved with the calm confidence of someone used to crises. But there was something else in his expression now—something softer. Concern, maybe. Or guilt.

He set the items on the nightstand and turned to me. I tried to sit up on my own, but my body betrayed me. My limbs felt like jelly and my skin burned from the inside out.

“Here,” he said quietly, sliding an arm behind my back and lifting me gently as if I were made of glass.

The moment our skin touched, I shivered—not from cold, but from confusion. This was the same man who had abducted me. The same man who had a sniper rifle stashed somewhere in this house and a kill list in the next room. And yet… here he was, holding me like I was something precious.

He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, pressed it into my hands, and then opened the small pill bottle. Two tablets dropped into his palm with a dull click.

“Take these,” he murmured, his voice low but not unkind.

I hesitated, but my body didn’t. I took the pills from his hand, placed them on my tongue, and drank the water like it was the only thing keeping me alive. It tasted metallic—maybe from the glass, or maybe from fear.

Once I’d swallowed, he leaned forward, brushing my damp hair away from my forehead with the back of his fingers. His touch was surprisingly cool. Tender.

Then, slowly, his hand shifted to rest on my brow, his palm broad and warm against my skin. His brow furrowed the moment he felt the heat radiating from me.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself. “Too fast. Your body’s crashing.”

There was no panic in his voice—just a quiet, unsettling focus. Like he’d done this before. Like taking care of someone wasn’t new… but that someone being me was.

He dipped the towel into the bowl, wrung it out carefully, and then folded it with precision before laying it gently across my forehead.

The moment the cool cloth met my skin, relief flooded through me in small waves. The fire behind my eyes dulled. My heartbeat slowed just a little.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, my voice hoarse, the question floating between us like smoke.

He didn’t answer. Not right away.

Instead, he looked at me for a long moment—searching, calculating, maybe even unsure.

Then he said quietly, “Because you’re not just anyone.”

Before I could ask what that meant, the weight of the medicine began to drag me under. My limbs softened. The pain blurred at the edges. The last thing I felt was his hand smoothing a stray curl away from my temple.

And then—darkness.

Nick’s POV

She was still burning up.

I dipped the towel into the cold water again and gently ran it along her forehead and down the sides of her face, watching her eyes flutter as the medication lulled her into sleep.

Probably a fever from stress. Change of environment. Emotional shock. Understandable.

She wasn’t used to this kind of life—this world of violence, calculation, and endless surveillance.

Once I was sure she was asleep, I moved to pick up her discarded clothes. I didn’t want her waking up uncomfortable. I threw them in the laundry and turned on the machine before grabbing my gear bag and heading to the upstairs room.

Sure enough, the files had been touched.

I could always tell.

I picked up Michel Johnson’s file and retrieved my pen.

Report: Michel Johnson will be attending a fundraising gala in two days with his wife and firstborn son. Two bulletproof cars. Approximately thirty armed guards. Elite security detail.

Notes: High visibility. Risk: medium.

Plan: Proceed. Inside assistance confirmed.

I smiled to myself.

They always think money makes them untouchable.

They forget that loyalty can’t be bought.

I set the file aside, locked the drawer, and left the room.

She was still sleeping.

Good.

I went to the kitchen and prepared chicken soup from scratch—onions, carrots, broth, all the right ingredients to comfort and restore. I poured it into a thermos so it would stay warm, knowing she wouldn’t be waking up for hours.

After placing it on the nightstand in her room, I headed out to the supermarket. Groceries, baking supplies—flour, sugar, vanilla extract, and cocoa. Everything she might need to distract herself while I was gone.

Next, I stopped by a boutique and selected clothes in her size. Soft fabrics, neutral tones. Comfortable. I bought her underwear, toiletries, even a silk robe.

I returned home just before sunset.

The house was silent. Abby was still asleep.

I placed the groceries in the pantry, labeled all the supplies, and headed to the room beside mine—the one I’d been preparing for her.

I unpacked everything—clothes in drawers, undergarments folded neatly, body wash and shampoo in the bathroom. Lavender-scented lotion on the vanity. Everything exactly where it needed to be.

Then I went back to check on her.

The towel on her forehead had grown warm. I dipped it in the cold water again and replaced it gently.

I watched her for a moment—how peaceful she looked when she wasn’t questioning or panicking.

Like she belonged here.

At this rate, she won’t wake up until tomorrow.

There goes my chicken soup.