Chapter 8 - The BreachI backed away slowly from the French doors, my heart slamming wildly against my ribs.
Stay here. Use the passcode. Griffin’s voice echoed in my head.
Outside, a shadow stretched across the sheer curtains. A heavy gloved hand tapped twice against the glass—not aggressively, but with an eerie, methodical rhythm. Then, a low metallic scrape echoed as a glass-cutter began spinning against the reinforced pane.
I scanned the study frantically. There had to be a weapon, a panic button, something. My eyes landed on the heavy brass poker resting beside the stone fireplace.
I sprinted across the room, grabbed the heavy brass rod, and turned back just as the glass pane shattered inward with a muffled pop.
A gloved hand reached through the jagged opening, turning the interior deadbolt.
The French door swung open, and a tall, heavily armed operative stepped into the red-lit study. He wore black tactical gear, a Kevlar mask obscuring his face, and held a suppressed submachine gun leveled directly at chest height.
He didn't speak. He just raised the barrel.
Adrenaline surged through my veins with terrifying clarity. I didn't think; I moved. As he stepped forward, I swung the heavy brass poker with every ounce of strength I possessed, catching him squarely across the side of his helmet.
The impact jarred my arms to the shoulder, but it threw his aim off. His suppressed submachine gun fired a burst into the ceiling plaster, raining drywall dust down around us.
Before he could recover, I swung a second time, striking his weapon and knocking it out of his grip. It skidded across the hardwood floor.
The operative cursed, lunging forward and tackling me to the rug. We crashed hard into the mahogany desk, knocking over a stack of papers and the crystal scotch decanter, which shattered into a thousand glittering pieces.
He pinned my arms to the floor, his massive weight pressing the air out of my lungs. He reached for a combat knife strapped to his thigh.
“Going somewhere, sweetheart?” a raspy voice muttered behind the mask.
I struggled wildly, kicking and thrashing, but his grip was like an industrial hydraulic press. The cold steel of the knife blade hovered inches from my throat.
Suddenly, the doorway behind us blew open with a deafening crash.
“Get your hands off her!”
A gunshot echoed through the study—sharp, thunderous, and deafening in the confined space.
The operative pinning me suddenly went completely limp, his heavy body slumping sideways onto the floor.
Standing in the doorway, smoke curling from the barrel of his sidearm, was Griffin. His face was streaked with dirt and blood—not his own—and his eyes blazed with a terrifying, apocalyptic fury.
He dropped his pistol into his holster, rushed across the room, and hauled the dead operative off me in a single fluid motion.
“Ren! Are you okay? Did he touch you?” Griffin demanded frantically, his hands flying over my shoulders and arms, checking for injuries.
“I’m... I’m okay,” I gasped, sucking in air, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. “I’m okay.”
Griffin pulled me fiercely against his chest, burying his face in my hair. I could feel his heart hammering just as fast as mine.
“The perimeter is secure,” Griffin breathed, his voice trembling slightly. “Miller and the team neutralized the second operative outside the nursery. Rosie is safe. Everyone is safe.”
I pulled back just enough to look up into his bruised, dirt-stained face.
“Who were they, Griffin?” I whispered. “When does this end?”
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Griffin looked down at the fallen operative on the rug, then back at me, his jaw set in a hard, unbreakable line.
“It ends tonight,” Griffin said quietly. “Because I’m going to Chicago.”
