Chapter 4 - SHADOWS IN THE WINE CELLARMarco moved through the darkened corridors of the Blackwood estate like a wraith. He knew every floorboard that creaked, every blind spot in the surveillance grid, and every shadow cast by the antique sconces. The Blackwood mansion was built like a fortress during the Prohibition era, complete with smuggling tunnels that connected the basement to the old carriage house three hundred yards away.
That’s how they got in, Marco realized, halting abruptly near the entrance to the subterranean wine cellar. The biometric lock on the heavy iron cellar door had been cleanly bypassed—not by hacking, but by a physical override key.
A key identical to the one resting in Serena Montigue’s vanity drawer.
Marco crouched low, his Sig Sauer extended in a Weaver stance. The heavy oak door of the cellar stood ajar by barely two inches. From within came the faint, rhythmic scuff of a boot heel against damp stone.
"Drop the weapon," Marco said, stepping through the threshold with his flashlight beam cutting a blinding white swath through the dusty air.
A figure in tactical black spun around instantly, a suppressed submachine gun rising in a blur of motion.
Bang.
Marco’s bullet chewed a chunk out of the stone wall an inch from the intruder’s ear. The man cursed in fluent Russian, diving behind a massive oak wine rack that held thousands of dollars' worth of vintage Bordeaux. Bottles shattered in a crimson cascade, splashing across the flagstones like fresh blood.
"You're out of your depth, operator," Marco called out, sliding sideways into the cover of a massive structural pillar. "The perimeter is locked. The police are ten minutes out, and Mr. Blackwood is already hunting your partner. Drop the iron or you die in this hole."
A low laugh echoed from behind the broken wine racks. "You think Victor Blackwood is the hunter here, security dog? Look at the dates on those wine bottles. Ask him what happened on October 12th, ten years ago. Ask him who really killed his first wife, Elena!"
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Marco’s finger tightened on the trigger, his mind racing. October 12th. The night Elena Blackwood died in a fiery car crash on the coastal highway.
Before Marco could process the implication, a blinding flash grenade detonated near the cellar ceiling, filling the subterranean vault with searing white light and a deafening roar that scrambled his senses.
