Chapter 8 Traitor In Mask Of Ally

• Tara’s warm, affectionate gaze turned cold—like a predator locking onto its prey. In an instant, the softness in her eyes was replaced by the fierce hunger of a wolf ready to tear apart anything in its way.
• She stormed into her office, yanked open a drawer, and grabbed a set of bike keys. Just as she was about to leave, her sharp eyes caught sight of Lyon standing with Clara. Without hesitation, she called out to him.
• “Lyon, you can head home on your own. I have urgent business to handle,” she said, her voice carrying an edge that left no room for argument.
• Before Lyon could even open his mouth to respond, Tara was already striding away, leaving nothing but the lingering weight of her authority in the air.
• The chilly night wind slashed through the streets as Tara sped towards her apartment, her mind racing as fast as her motorcycle. The call had changed everything—someone had betrayed them, and that meant only one thing. Blood would be spilled tonight.
• She barely took a breath as she stormed into her apartment. The moment the door slammed shut, she shed her civilian disguise, revealing the true predator beneath. She changed into her black combat gear — leather pants, a sleek jacket, and gloves that fit her like a second skin. She strapped a dagger to her thigh, slipped a gun into her waistband, and with one swift movement, tied her hair into a tight ponytail.
• Tonight, the underworld would remember why they feared her.
• The headquarters, once buzzing with activity, fell into an eerie silence the moment Tara stepped in. The dim lighting cast long shadows, amplifying the tension that thickened the air. Jerry and Vincent stood at attention, their postures stiff, their expressions a careful mix of anticipation and unease.
• As she strode forward, her presence commanded every ounce of attention in the room. Both men instinctively bowed their heads—not just out of respect, but something deeper. Fear.
• Tara walked in with an air of quiet dominance, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Without a word, she pulled out a dagger and placed it on the table with a soft clink, the sound sharp enough to make the men in the room shift uneasily. She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, a cold smile playing at the corner of her lips as she scanned the faces before her.
• Tara (coldly): “Did you get the traitor?”
• Vincent’s jaw tensed. A muscle twitched near his temple, a sign of unspoken frustration.
• Vincent: “No, boss. Not yet. But… there’s something else. Something urgent.”
• Tara remained unreadable, but the sudden silence that followed made the room feel suffocating.
• Tara: “This urgency… does it have anything to do with Jackal?”
• Vincent hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. But Tara caught it. She always did.
• Vincent (gritting his teeth): “Yes, boss. He’s planning another trade.”
• A slow, humorless smirk spread across Tara’s lips. She dragged her fingers along the edge of the dagger, tapping it lightly against the surface.
• Tara: “Then it’s time we remind Jackal who really runs this game. He dare do something behind my back then he have to pay the price hundred times greater than the profit.”
• Tara’s fingers drummed against the dagger’s hilt, her eyes dark with calculated rage. She leaned back, exuding a lethal calm that sent a chill through the room.
• Tara (mocking): “Trade? Let me guess—diamonds? Cocaine?”
• Vincent shifted uneasily, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He knew Tara well enough to recognize the storm brewing behind her composed expression.
• Vincent (grimly): “Neither. It’s worse this time… He’s trading women for weapons.”
• The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of his words suffocating. Jerry stole a glance at Tara, but her face gave away nothing—not immediately.
• Then, like a fuse finally reaching its end, she exploded.
• Tara (low, deadly): “That son of a bitch… Didn’t he learn last time? I broke his bones. Left him blind in one eye. And yet—he still breathes?”
• Her voice was soft, dangerously controlled, but the venom behind it was unmistakable. She stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, every movement coiled with restrained violence.
• Tara: “That was my mistake. I should have slit his throat that night. But I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
• Her fingers curled around the dagger’s handle, knuckles whitening. The men in the room knew better than to speak when she was like this—except Jerry, who hesitated before clearing his throat.
• Jerry (carefully): “Boss… there’s more.”
• Tara stilled.
• Jerry: “We’ve encountered Jackal’s men in our territory. And… we suspect there’s a leak.”
• Vincent stiffened, his entire posture shifting to high alert.
• Jerry (grimly): “Today’s incident—someone on the inside tipped them off. And whoever it is… they’re close. Only a handful of us knew about that drive.”
• For a moment, Tara didn’t react. Then, slowly, a smile crept onto her lips—cold, knowing, almost amused.
• Tara (softly): “Oh? A traitor? How… interesting.”
• Vincent exchanged a look with Jerry, his brows knitting together.
• Vincent: “Boss, do you have any idea who—”
• Tara lifted a single finger, silencing him effortlessly.
• Tara (smirking): “Shh… Vincent. Let’s not ruin the fun just yet.”
• She spun the dagger between her fingers, the silver blade catching the dim light.
• Tara: “You see, a rat never knows it’s being watched… until the trap snaps shut.”
• Her smirk widened, and for the first time that night, Jerry and Vincent felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.
• Tara moved with a predator’s grace, her shoe heels clicking softly against the cold floor as she made her way to the drawer. The air in the room thickened with an unspoken tension. With a smooth pull, she slid the drawer open, the metallic clink of steel echoing as her fingers wrapped around a weapon.
• She withdrew another knife with deliberate ease keeping the other one inside, holding it up to the dim light. The polished blade gleamed, its sharp edge whispering of violence yet to come. Turning it between her fingers, she tested its weight, the gesture almost… affectionate.
• Tara (calm, almost playful): “You know, Jerry… it’s been a while since I played with this knife. Where did I leave it for such a long time? It's a shame isn't it?”
• Jerry shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering between Tara’s face and the blade she twirled so effortlessly.
• Jerry (carefully): “Boss, I thought we were focusing on finding the traitor and about Jackal.”
• Tara let out a slow, wicked chuckle, tilting her head ever so slightly.
• Tara (mocking, dramatic): “Traitor, traitor… always so impatient, Jerry.”
• She took a step forward, dragging the tip of the knife along the edge of the table as she moved. The faint scraping sound sent a shiver through the room.
• Tara: “You know, I’m in the mood for a story telling first.”
• She paced, her voice smooth, deliberate—each word carrying an eerie weight.
• Tara: “There was once a wolf—clever, cunning, desperate. He hunted sheep to survive, but one day, the shepherds wised up. No more easy meals. No more sheeps wandering into the forest.”
• She stopped, her gaze locking onto Vincent. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her lips.
• Tara (lowering her voice, almost a whisper): “The wolf began to starve.”
• The tension thickened as she continued, her blade tracing light patterns on the wooden surface.
• Tara: “So he came up with a plan. He found a dead sheep skinned it and wore its to hide himself. Walked right among them. Unnoticed like a gentle sheep. But every day, he led one sheep to the river with him… eveyone sees that every evening, he and other sheep went to river but only he returned alone.”
• Silence.
• Vincent smirked, arms crossed.
• Vincent (amused): “So what’s the moral, boss? That there’s always one idiot willing to die?”
• His chuckle barely had time to settle before—THUD.
• The knife slammed into the wood with bone-rattling force, the blade quivering from the impact.
• Vincent flinched.
• Tara leaned in, her expression unreadable, her voice barely above a whisper.
• Tara: “Did I say the story was over?”
• She pulled the knife free with a sharp flick of her wrist, twirling it once before letting it rest in her palm.
• Tara: “The moral is this, Vincent—wolves don’t just hunt.”
• She took a step closer, her presence suffocating.
• Tara: “They wait. They blend in. And when the time is right…”
• She let the silence stretch for just a second too long before finishing, her voice dripping with lethal intent.
• Tara: “…They strike.”
• The room felt colder. Nobody dared to breathe too loud.
• Tara smirked, tossing the knife back onto the table carelessly, as if the moment of tension hadn’t just held everyone captive.
• Tara (casual, almost lazy): “Now… let’s find our little wolf, shall we?”
• She turned toward the door, her movements slow, deliberate.