Chapter 3 - The BlackoutThe heavy iron chandeliers overhead flickered once, twice, and then died with a sharp electric pop.
The sudden silence of the estate was deafening. The central heating hummed into stillness, leaving only the crackle of the dying fire to cast long, eerie orange streaks across the walls of the study.
"Stay down," Cedric muttered instantly.
His hand released her lapel, and with a swift, practiced motion, he reached beneath the heavy mahogany desk, pulling out a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol with a suppressor already screwed to the barrel. His movements were mechanical, fluid, and terrifyingly efficient—the movements of a man who lived in a state of perpetual war.
"What's happening?" Anna whispered, dropping to her knees beside the heavy oak frame of the desk.
"The grid didn't fail," Cedric said, his eyes locked on the heavy double doors of the study. "It was cut. EMP or remote relay trigger at the main transformer down the hill."
Before Anna could process the words, the sound of shattering glass echoed from the east wing—her wing of the house.
A sharp, metallic clink hit the floorboards upstairs, followed by the muffled, heavy thud of combat boots hitting carpet.
"They're inside," Anna breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Cedric didn't hesitate. With a powerful, synchronized heave of his upper body, he swung himself out of the wheelchair and onto the floor with a heavy, practiced thud, dragging his legs behind him with a chilling lack of emotion. He pulled himself across the Persian rug toward the heavy velvet curtains covering the secret exit behind the bookshelf, his pistol raised and ready.
"Cedric—your chair—" Anna started, reaching out to help him.
"Don't touch me!" he roared, a flash of raw, savage pride cutting through the dark. "Move behind the desk. If the door opens, you shoot, or you die."
Anna’s breath hitched. She looked at the pistol he had tossed onto the floor near her hand—a small, heavy Walther PPK. She had never fired a gun in her life. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely wrap her fingers around the grip.
Outside in the hallway, heavy footsteps approached the study door.
One. Two. Three pairs of boots.
Then, a voice echoed through the dark, cold and dripping with mock amusement.
"Come out, little cripple! We know you can't run very far!"
Cedric stopped crawling. He leaned his back against the mahogany bookcase, his face slick with sweat, his right arm braced against the floor, aiming directly at the heavy oak doors. His breathing was heavy, controlled, a machine running on pure adrenaline and rage.
Anna looked at the door. Then she looked at Cedric, sprawled helpless on the floor yet radiating a terrifying, lethal aura.
In that split second, all the fear evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp spike of adrenaline.
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She picked up the gun. She clicked off the safety, just like she’d seen him do.
And the door handle began to turn.
