The heavy oak doors of the great hall groaned open, carrying the heavy scent of imported cedar, pipe smoke, and the cold sweat of thirty-two terrified witnesses.

The air in the West Pavilion tasted of woodsmoke and old copper.

Elena pulled the heavy iron bolt of the panic room shut, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she dragged a heavy mahogany wardrobe across the door to buy precious seconds. In her arms, Mia was crying silently, her small hands tightly clutching her torn, one-eyed rabbit.

"Mommy, are the bad men coming?" Mia whispered, her large brown eyes wide with a terror no three-and-a-half-year-old should ever have to process.

"No, sweet girl, no," Elena lied, tears streaming down her pale cheeks as she knelt beside the floor grate. "Mr. Renz is here. He’s going to keep us safe."

Crash.

The sound of shattering glass from the main parlor echoed down the corridor. Heavy, deliberate boots crunched across the hardwood floorboards, moving closer with every passing second. Elena pressed her back against the cold stone wall of the panic room, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She reached out blindly, her fingers searching the floor for anything—a heavy iron poker, a book, a shard of glass—anything to protect her child.

The doorknob of the pavilion's master bedroom rattled violently.

"I know you're in here, sweetheart," a rough, gravelly voice sang out through the wood. "Open up, and make it easy on yourself. The boss wants the house empty before sundown."

Elena held her breath, biting down on her knuckle to stop herself from screaming.

Then, the heavy oak door of the bedroom didn't just unlock—it splintered down the middle as a heavy boot slammed through the panels.

An operative stepped into the room, raising a suppressed pistol, his eyes scanning the dusty corners until they locked onto the wardrobe barricading the panic room. A cruel, jagged smile spread across his face.