Chapter 7 - THE BREAKTHROUGH IN THE EAST WINGThe smoke drifted through the shattered stained-glass windows of the grand ballroom like ghostly fingers.
Four mercenaries in matte-black tactical gear dropped silently from the vaulted ceiling on rappelling lines, their boots hitting the polished marble floor with barely a whisper. They moved with terrifying military precision, sweeping their suppressed carbines across the darkened room.
They thought the manor was paralyzed. They thought the old man was cornered.
They didn't expect the floorboards beneath them to open.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
A burst of gunfire erupted from an automated defensive turret concealed beneath a sliding mahogany floor panel, catching the lead mercenary squarely in the chest plate and sending him crashing backward into a marble pillar.
The remaining three operatives scrambled for cover behind the massive gilded sofas, returning heavy suppressive fire that chewed the antique upholstery into shreds of cotton and velvet.
“Flank the left console! He’s running the grid from the library!” the squad leader barked into his tactical comms unit.
As two of the mercenaries rushed toward the arched double doors leading to the library, a sudden flash of movement caught their eye from the shadowed balcony above.
It was Claire.
Remembering Grant’s exact instructions, she braced the submachine gun against the stone balustrade, took a steady breath, and squeezed the trigger. The weapon bucked sharply against her shoulder, sending a rapid-fire cluster of rounds crashing into the plaster wall inches above the mercenaries' heads, showering them in choking white dust.
It wasn't a kill shot, but it completely broke their momentum.
Before the mercenaries could raise their barrels to return fire, a towering shadow detached itself from the darkness behind them.
It was Grant.
He moved with ruthless, terrifying efficiency. In less than three seconds, the former mafia boss closed the distance, disarming the first operative with a brutal downward strike to the wrist and driving the butt of his sidearm into the second mercenary’s temple. Both men collapsed instantly, unconscious and bleeding onto the carpet.
Grant lowered his weapon, his breathing steady, and looked up toward the balcony.
Claire lowered her submachine gun, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but her chin held high.
“Not bad for a former maid,” Grant muttered, a rare, grim smile touching his lips.
“You’d be surprised what a mother will learn when she has to protect her child,” Claire replied, reloading her weapon with practiced ease.
Suddenly, the encrypted satellite radio clipped to Grant’s tactical vest crackled to life. A distorted, computerized voice echoed through the static:
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“Whitmore. You can delay the inevitable, but you can't stop the Council. We’re standing outside your reinforced vault right now. Open the steel doors, or we pump toxic gas through the ventilation shafts and watch your little favorite maid’s daughter choke to death.”
Grant’s smile vanished instantly. His eyes turned black as pitch.
