Chapter 377: Hidden Spark
Emily's voice was low but steady.
After Charles was shot, the wound had been treated immediately. Who knew how the virus got in? Perhaps through airborne droplets. Perhaps contact. Perhaps something even more insidious.
Kismet's bizarre behavior had set off alarm bells, but Emily had no proof—only instinct.
Louis studied her, brow furrowed. "What kind of help?"
Emily took a deep breath and pulled out her phone, the screen still showing her father's recent call. She stared at it for a moment before looking up. "I need... resources. Intelligence resources."
She kept it vague, deliberately ambiguous.
Louis was smart. He'd understand.
But she wasn't ready to show all her cards—what if she was wrong? What if Kismet hadn't been the one to infect Charles? What if Gerald had laid this trap much earlier? Influenza had too many transmission vectors.
Her mother had been infected just as mysteriously all those years ago. This enhanced version seemed targeted, but she could only test her theory step by step.
Louis's gaze sharpened. "Targeting who?"
Emily paused, lowering her voice. "Kismet. And Gerald."
She said nothing more, just held his stare. Her mind was already churning through possibilities, but she needed to confirm certain things first. Perhaps starting with Kismet would yield clues. Perhaps she could create a fracture, force Gerald to expose himself.
Louis was silent for a moment, eyes scanning the lab report. "You suspect her?"
Emily shook her head. "I'm not certain. Just a hunch. That night at the amusement park, she got too close to Charles. Her gun... or something else. But I have no proof."
She paused, voice hardening. "That's why I need to find her first. Track her movements, her communications. Maybe we'll find something."
Louis considered this. "It's doable. But risky. Gerald controls too much intelligence—one slip and we're exposed."
Emily gave a bitter smile. "I know. But I don't have time to wait for Charles to wake up on his own. I'm going on the offensive."
Louis nodded. "Alright. I'll mobilize my people. Give me half a day."
Half a day later, Louis's operatives reported Kismet's location.
She hadn't immediately returned to Gerald's estate. Instead, she was holed up in a cheap motel on the outskirts of Seraphim. Maybe she feared Gerald would scrutinize the mission details. Maybe she just needed to catch her breath. Either way, she'd chosen to lie low—which only reinforced Emily's suspicions. If Kismet had successfully infected Charles, why wasn't she reporting in immediately? Was she waiting for symptoms to appear?
Emily insisted on being involved in what came next.
Not because she wanted personal revenge, but because she needed control. The virus theory was still speculation—she couldn't act recklessly. But she could probe from the edges.
Ten p.m. The alley behind the motel.
Kismet had just stepped out of the shower, hair still damp, wrapped in a towel. She reached for her phone, intending to dial Gerald's encrypted line and report: Mission accomplished. Charles shot and infected. Everything according to plan.
But just as her finger touched the call button, the door opened with barely a whisper.
Three shadows slipped inside like ghosts.
Kismet's reflexes were sharp—she spun toward the nightstand drawer where her gun was hidden.
Too late.
A gloved hand clamped a chloroform-soaked cloth over her mouth. She struggled for a few seconds before her body went limp.
"Bag her," ordered the lead operative—one of Louis's men.
They stuffed Kismet into a car trunk. The vehicle pulled away smoothly.
The entire operation took less than two minutes. No one noticed.
Emily waited at the temporary safehouse Louis had arranged.
It was an abandoned basement—dim yellow lighting, damp air. Photos of Gerald and intelligence charts were pinned to the walls like a makeshift war room. She sat at a metal table, fingers drumming lightly, mind running through scenarios: If Kismet had infected Charles, the method was likely a needle—easy to miss in the chaos of the park. But what if it had been droplet or surface transmission? She needed to extract something concrete from Kismet.
When Kismet came to, bound to a chair, the first thing she saw was Emily.
She froze. Her throat seemed to close. It took her a long moment to force out a single word. "You..."
Emily didn't give her time to think. She handed the phone they'd taken from Kismet to Louis's tech specialist. "Crack it."
The man adjusted his glasses and connected a data cable. Lines of code immediately began scrolling across his screen.
Kismet's face went white. She realized her last card was being stripped away. "Emily, what the hell are you doing?"
Emily crouched in front of her, gaze calm to the point of coldness. "I don't want to kill you. But I need you to do me a favor."
Kismet twisted her mouth into a sneer. "Help you? Why the hell would I do that?"
Emily ignored the provocation, keeping her eyes locked on Kismet's. "Your phone has Gerald's contact information. I want to see if there's anything I need. If you know something, tell me now. I'll consider making this easier on you."
Kismet let out a harsh laugh that echoed off the damp walls. "You think I'm afraid of pain? Ha."
Emily's brow twitched slightly, but she remained controlled. "At the park—when you got close to Charles—what did you do?"
Kismet's gaze flickered. She forced it back down and sneered. "Does it matter what I did? What matters is—you're going to kill him."
Emily's expression darkened.
Kismet leaned forward as far as her restraints allowed, voice turning shrill. "Why do you think Charles keeps betting his life on you? Because you're his weakness. As long as you're alive, he'll throw himself in front of bullets. If you cry, he loses control. If you're in danger, he'll gamble his life away without a second thought."
"Emily—women like you are experts at dragging men into hell."
Emily's fingernails dug into her palms, nearly breaking skin. For one sharp instant, rage surged through her chest—she wanted to slap Kismet, to make her shut her mouth.
But she didn't move.
She just inhaled slowly, softly, pushing the impulse down deeper. She knew any emotional reaction could become leverage. And more importantly—hitting Kismet would accomplish nothing.