Chapter 7 - Blackout at the EstateEmergency backup generators usually kicked in within three seconds.
Three seconds passed. Then six. Then ten.
The mansion remained shrouded in absolute, suffocating darkness, broken only by the pale, silvery glow of the moonlight streaming through the conservatory glass.
"Dad?" I called out, my voice echoing nervously in the cavernous room.
"Stay right behind me," my father commanded, his voice steady as a rock as he drew a sleek, legal-carry firearm from a concealed holster inside his jacket. "The automated security grid didn't fail on its own. Someone hacked the mainframe from the inside."
Panic spiked through my chest. Emma was sleeping in the second-floor nursery, surrounded by private guards—or at least, guards who were supposed to be there.
"Emma!" I gasped, turning toward the door.
"Rebecca, wait!" my father grabbed my arm, but I wrenched myself free. Maternal instinct overrode all logic. I couldn't wait in the dark. My baby was upstairs.
I bolted out of the conservatory into the grand central hallway, my sneakers slapping loudly against the polished marble floor. The moonlight cut dramatic slashes across the sweeping double staircase.
"Help!" a choked voice echoed from the landing above.
I froze on the bottom step.
A heavy thump sounded from the top of the stairs, followed by the sound of dragging fabric. Out of the shadows of the second-floor corridor, a figure stumbled backward and collapsed down the final three steps, landing in a crumpled heap at my feet.
It was one of our elite private security guards, Miller. His uniform was torn, blood soaked through the collar of his shirt, and his eyes were glazed over in unconsciousness.
"Miller!" I cried out, dropping to my knees beside him.
Suddenly, heavy, synchronized combat boots echoed down the dark hallway above.
Three figures dressed head-to-toe in matte-black tactical gear emerged from the shadows, their faces concealed behind reinforced Kevlar helmets and night-vision goggles that glowed with an eerie green luminescence.
They weren't here to rob the house. They weren't here for money.
They were holding silenced automatic rifles, and their laser sights locked directly onto my chest.
"Target sighted," a mechanical, distorted voice crackled through a tactical radio attached to the lead operative's shoulder. "Securing the billionaire's daughter and the unborn heir. Move in."
My blood turned to ice water. I scrambled backward, pressing my spine against the wooden banister. My mind raced in a frenzy. Where was my father?
Before the tactical operatives could take another step, a deafening gunshot shattered the silence of the foyer.
Bang!
The lead operative’s helmet cracked instantly, sending him spinning backward into the wall as he dropped his rifle.
From the shadows of the library doorway, my father emerged, firing his weapon with cold, ruthless precision born of a lifetime in high-stakes survival.
"Run, Rebecca! GET TO THE PANIC ROOM!" Richard bellowed over the gunfire, squeezing the trigger again.
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Two more shots echoed through the mansion. The other operatives scrambled for cover behind marble pillars, returning fire with suppressed bursts that chewed holes through the expensive antique wall panels.
I didn't hesitate. I pushed myself up from the floor and sprinted up the stairs, leaping over Miller's unconscious body, charging down the dark corridor toward the nursery where Emma lay sleeping.
