Chapter 4 - The Federal TrapBefore Chloe could pull her hand away, the heavy oak doors of the study blew inward with a deafening crash.
Wood splintered across the Persian rug.
“Federal agents! Nobody move!”
A squad of armed men in tactical gear poured into the room, their assault rifles raised, lasers painting red dots across the mahogany walls and the iron chest. Leading them was Agent Thomas Vance—Arthur Vance’s younger, much more dangerous brother—his face contorted in a triumphant sneer as he pointed his service pistol directly at Sebastian’s chest.
“Well, well, well,” Agent Vance shouted over the chaos, stepping into the center of the room. “The great Sebastian Rourke, caught red-handed with stolen federal recovery assets. And who do we have here? Hawthorne and Vale’s star appraiser knee-deep in a criminal conspiracy.”
Chloe’s heart plummeted into her stomach. The red laser dot danced across the fabric of her obsidian dress, right over her heart.
“Agent Vance,” Sebastian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He didn't raise his hands. He didn't flinch. He slowly stood up straight, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over Chloe as he stepped directly between her and the six loaded guns.
“Mr. Rourke,” Vance snarled, a manic grin spreading across his face. “Drop your hands where I can see them. You’re looking at forty years in a federal penitentiary. And your little girlfriend here? Accessory to grand larceny and interstate trafficking. She’ll be sharing a cell in Framingham before the week is out.”
Sebastian did not raise his voice. He did not beg for her life. He merely loosened the cuffs of his charcoal suit, looked at the corrupt federal agent aiming at Chloe’s heart, and spoke with the quiet certainty of a man who had buried enemies for less.
“If one bullet touches her,” Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Chloe’s arms stand up, “no one in this building will leave with a name worth remembering.”
Agent Vance laughed nervously, though his finger tightened slightly on the trigger. “You’re outmatched, Rourke. Look around you. Your guards are locked outside, your phones are jammed, and this house is completely surrounded by federal marshals.”
“Are they?” Sebastian asked softly.
At that exact second, the overhead lights in Westbridge Manor flickered once, twice, and then plunged into total, pitch-black darkness.
The emergency red backup lamps sputtered to life along the baseboards, casting an eerie, crimson glow across the room.
Click. Click. Click.
From the shadowy corridors outside the study, the distinctive sound of weapon safeties disengaging echoed through the mansion. Sebastian’s private security force—professionals far better trained than any federal strike team—had just surrounded the marshals from behind.
Agent Vance’s face drained of color. “Hold your positions!” he screamed to his men, but panic was already fracturing their line.
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Sebastian turned his head slightly, his eyes finding Chloe in the red gloom. His expression was fierce, possessive, and utterly unshakable.
“Stay behind me, Chloe,” he commanded quietly. “I told you no one would ever touch you.”
