Chapter 7 - Inside the VaultThe heavy steel door muffled the sound of gunfire outside to a dull, rhythmic thud.
Nathan leaned back against the cold concrete wall of the panic room, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off, leaving behind a cold, stinging wave of exhaustion.
"Are you hit?" Ethan asked, kneeling beside his brother and quickly checking Nathan’s arms and torso for injuries.
Nathan shook his head, running a trembling hand across his face. "I'm fine. Just... shaken up. Ethan, what is happening? Are we actually under siege in our own home?"
"It’s not just an ordinary break-in," Ethan said, standing up and walking over to the computer terminal built into the panic room's monitoring wall. He tapped the keyboard, bringing up the closed-circuit security camera feeds that still functioned across the estate. "Look at this."
Nathan stood up and walked over to the screen.
The cameras showed the main study. Agent Vance was locked in fierce hand-to-hand combat with one of the masked intruders near the desk. With a swift, brutal sweep, Vance disarmed the operative, slamming his head against the edge of the oak desk and knocking him out cold.
However, two more armed men were advancing rapidly down the hallway toward the study doors, carrying heavy breaching charges.
"They're going to blow the study entrance," Nathan muttered, his eyes wide. "Can Vance hold them off?"
"She won't have to," Ethan replied calmly, typing a rapid sequence into the console. "The panic room is wired directly into the estate’s automated defense grid. I installed it myself after our father passed away."
Ethan pressed a large red button labeled CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL.
On the monitor, a series of heavy steel security shutters dropped with lightning speed over every single window and doorway of the east wing, trapping the remaining intruders inside the study and cutting off their exit routes.
"They're trapped," Nathan breathed, a grim sense of satisfaction washing over him.
"Temporarily," Ethan corrected, his eyes narrowing as he watched the monitor closely. "Those men are just foot soldiers. Professional cleaners sent to mop up loose ends after Vanessa’s arrest. But the person pulling the strings—'The Architect'—is still out there."
Nathan frowned, leaning closer to the screen. "You keep saying that name. Who the hell is The Architect?"
Ethan turned away from the console, his expression dark. "When I was investigating Vanessa’s financial network last month, I found traces of a master account that didn't belong to any known syndicate boss. Every single shell company, every offshore transfer, every bribe paid to federal regulators over the past five years led back to one single individual."
"Who?" Nathan demanded.
Before Ethan could answer, the security feed flickered. The camera facing the front courtyard suddenly buzzed with static.
The image distorted, warped, and then replaced itself with a pre-recorded video feed streaming directly from an unknown external source.
The screen zoomed in on a figure standing outside the front gates, watching the burning estate through binoculars. A tall, impeccably dressed man in a charcoal overcoat turned slowly toward the camera lens, offering a slow, mocking smile.
Nathan froze. His breath caught in his throat.
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He knew that face.
In fact, he had shared a glass of scotch with him at the downtown country club just three nights ago.
