Chapter 9 - The Extraction Point"They took her! They took Emma!" Grace screamed, falling to her knees beside the empty, tossed-about bed where Emma had been sleeping just minutes earlier.
I felt a blinding, primal rage surge through my veins—a fury so absolute it pushed out every ounce of fear. No one invaded my home. No one took my children.
I rushed to the shattered window and peered out into the sprawling estate grounds below. Through the swirling mist, a matte-black tactical helicopter was lifting off from the private helipad near the western gardens, its heavy rotors kicking up dust and leaves in a furious gale.
"They're heading for the waterfront landing," I said, my voice cold as ice. I tapped my wrist communicator, overriding the encrypted jammer with a hardwired master code. "Automated defense grid: manual override. Engage non-lethal EMP pulse on the helipad coordinates."
A second later, a brilliant blue arc of electricity flashed across the lawn.
The departing helicopter sputtered, its instrument panel flashing red as the electromagnetic pulse scrambled its navigation systems. The aircraft lurched sideways, forced to set down hard near the edge of the private yacht docks.
"Grace, stay here with Lily," I ordered, grabbing an extra magazine from my tactical drawer and sliding it into my belt.
"Like hell I'm staying behind," Grace snapped, pulling a concealed Glock 19 from a hidden wall compartment behind the nursery bookshelf—a weapon I never knew she kept. "That's my daughter out there, Marcus. We go together."
I didn't argue. We moved with synchronized precision down through the darkened estate tunnels—a private subterranean route I had built years ago for security evacuations.
Within minutes, we breached the boathouse near the water's edge.
Through the salt-fog, the matte-black helicopter sat tilted on the concrete pad. Two heavily armored operatives in tactical gear stood guard near the cabin door, holding automatic rifles at the ready while a third man—the scarred leader from the video—dragged a kicking, screaming Emma toward the open hatch.
"Let her go!" Grace shouted, stepping out from the shadows of the boathouse with her weapon raised and locked.
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The lead operative spun around, a cruel smirk crossing his scarred face as he pressed the barrel of his sidearm directly against Emma's temple.
"Drop your weapons, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell," the leader snarled over the roar of the idling rotors. "Unless you want your precious little genetic miracle to leave this island in a body bag."
