Rising From Exile: The Widow's Comeback

The agents dragged Annetta down the dim service corridor toward the main hall. Her shoulder ached from where they gripped her, but she kept her face blank. As they rounded the corner, a woman stepped out of the shadows, carrying a plastic bin overflowing with loose files. It was Brenda, Annetta's personal assistant. Brenda took one look at Annetta's bleeding hand and the assault rifles pressed against her back. She let out a sharp gasp. The plastic bin slipped from her hands. Hundreds of papers fluttered to the floor like dead leaves. "Back up! Hands on the wall!" the agent barked, swinging his rifle toward Brenda. Brenda turned white. She threw her hands up and pressed her face against the floral wallpaper, shaking uncontrollably. Annetta's eyes darted to the scattered files. Hidden among the papers, spilled from a broken envelope, were four solid gold Angus coins. Unregistered hard currency. Annetta let her knees buckle. She collapsed into the pile of papers, letting out a pained groan. As her hands hit the floor, she swept the four heavy gold coins into her palm. The cold metal pressed into her skin, grounding her. "Get up!" The agent grabbed Annetta by the collar of her wet shirt and hauled her to her feet. As she was pulled upward, Annetta spun slightly. She brushed against Brenda's side and shoved the gold coins deep into the wide pocket of Brenda's wool trench coat. Brenda felt the heavy weight hit her pocket. Her eyes went wide. She looked at Annetta. Annetta shot her a look so sharp and terrifying that Brenda instantly swallowed her gasp. "Please," Annetta begged the agent, forcing her voice to tremble. "She's just an intern. She doesn't know anything about the accounts. Let her go." The lead agent pressed his earpiece, verifying Brenda's ID badge. "She's a contractor. Not on the seizure list," the voice on the radio confirmed. The agent waved his hand in disgust. "Get the hell out of here. And leave the papers." Brenda nodded frantically. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she turned and ran toward the side exit, her heels clicking erratically on the hardwood. "Brenda!" Annetta shouted after her. "Tell my driver not to forget to pick up my blue cashmere coat from the dry cleaners! The one with the heavy lining!" The agent laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You think you're going to need a coat where you're going, princess?" He didn't stop the message. Outside, Brenda burst through the side door into the freezing rain. She bypassed the main gates swarming with police and sprinted toward the staff lockers hidden near the rear service exit. She found Annetta's designated locker. Brenda remembered the strange request from months ago to leave a specific blue coat there. She ripped the door open and plunged her hands into the deep pockets of the heavy cashmere. Her fingers brushed against a small, heavy metal drive. A cold wallet. Brenda shoved it into her bra. She scaled the ivy-covered brick wall in the camera's blind spot and dropped into the dark woods, vanishing into the night. Back inside, Annetta felt a fraction of the tension leave her shoulders. The external supply line was secure. Brenda would use the crypto to buy the extreme-weather tents and chemical precursors they needed. The agents shoved Annetta through the massive double doors into the front hall. The blinding light of the crystal chandeliers burned her eyes. The room was packed with federal agents and heavily armed private security contractors. The air smelled of wet wool, fear, and expensive cigar smoke. Standing by the massive marble fireplace was Issac Rocha. He took a slow drag from his cigar and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. A smug, victorious smile stretched across his face. He looked at Annetta, his eyes slowly raking over her wet, clinging clothes and bleeding hands. His gaze was heavy with conquest and malicious lust. Annetta stepped in front of Clara, shielding her daughter. She straightened her spine, locking eyes with Issac. Her stare was absolute ice. On the velvet sofa to her right, Eleanor Crane, the elderly matriarch of the family, lay unconscious. Paramedics were trying to administer oxygen, but a private security guard was blocking their medical bags. Annetta's blood boiled. "She needs a hospital, Issac," Annetta snapped, her voice echoing in the silent room. "You are killing her." Issac tapped his cigar over the marble hearth. "Traitors don't get VIP medical treatment, Mrs. Bates." Cristina Crane, Annetta's mother-in-law, shot up from the adjacent chair. Her face was purple with rage. She pointed a trembling finger at Issac. "You bastard!" Cristina screamed. Milo, Issac's massive head of security, stepped forward. He shoved Cristina hard in the chest. She fell back onto the sofa. Her pearl necklace caught on his watch and snapped. Dozens of white pearls scattered across the floor, bouncing like hail. Annetta didn't think. She moved. She ripped her arm out of the federal agent's grip, lunged forward, and swung her hand with every ounce of strength she possessed. Crack. Her palm connected with Milo's cheekbone. The sound of the slap was like a gunshot in the cavernous room. Milo's head snapped to the side. Every assault rifle in the room was instantly raised, the barrels pointed directly at Annetta's chest. Annetta didn't step back. She stood over Cristina, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with a violent, protective fury. The quiet, submissive daughter-in-law was dead.