Interdimensional Trader Broke To Legend Book 3: A LitRPG Adventure Series (Interdimensional Trader Broke To Legend Series) by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2025-12-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter eight

Thorpe's breathing was ragged, uneven—not from exertion, but from the storm of obsession and rage boiling in his veins. The woman beside him whimpered, curling in on herself, but he didn't spare her a glance. His attention was on the phone he snatched from the nightstand with an impatient swipe.

"Yes," he snapped.

A voice crackled through the speaker. "We think we found the girls that were with Garret, sir."

Thorpe's entire demeanor changed—sharpening, focusing, the way a predator stills at the scent of prey.

"Excellent," he purred. "Where?"

"The Echelon Hotel," the man reported. "Camera feeds match the images from the footage outside Garret's house in Silverleaf Heights. Same build, same hair, same clothing from the timestamps we pulled."

Thorpe sat up straighter, hunger creeping into his gaze. "What room?"

"We don't know yet," the man admitted quickly. "Still tracking elevator logs, cross-referencing floor traffic, checking check-in records. We'll have it soon."

Thorpe nodded slowly, smiling as if savoring the words. "Good man. Very good. As soon as you confirm the room, bring them here. Untouched."

His eyes glinted with a sick, possessive anticipation.

"I'll open the gifts myself," he said softly. "And afterward… the men can have what's left."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Understood," the operative said.

Thorpe ended the call.

The phone dropped onto the bed with a dull thud. He finally turned his gaze toward the woman lying beside him, her face pale, her eyes terrified and distant. Thorpe didn't care. He felt powerful—invincible. A man reclaiming control of a narrative he believed was rightfully his.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling with a feral kind of satisfaction.

"Good things come," he murmured to himself. "One just has to reach out and take them."

A pulse of hunger—deranged and ravenous—shivered through him. His arrogance swelled, fed by pharmaceutical bravado and his own delusions.

He swung his legs off the bed, stretching with a twisted grin.

The little blue pill was working far too well today.

***

Colonel Kline sat hunched over the steel-gray desk in his command office, elbows planted firmly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The overhead lights hummed faintly—a soft, constant drone—but tonight the sound grated on him like a buzzing insect he couldn't swat away. The entire base seemed to tremble with leftover tension. Every set of boots that passed outside his door, every muffled voice drifting through the hallway, carried the same energy: exhaustion edged with disbelief.

Because this attack…

This one had been the worst he'd seen since assuming command of Northpoint Station.

Stacked on his desk were reports still warm from the printer. Sit-reps. Ammo counts. Casualty logs. Breach timelines. Thermal scans. He shuffled through page after page, each line of data painting a picture he already knew far too well: they had come dangerously close to losing the entire base.

Too close.

Kline rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he exhaled through his teeth. The icy air inside his office carried the faint metallic scent of corridor disinfectant. Even that smell, usually so sterile, now felt ominous—as if the building itself was trying to cleanse the memory of the blood that had been spilled outside.

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