Chapter 4 - Shadows in the Hallway"Stay here," Conrad ordered, his hand dipping inside his tailored jacket to pull out a matte-black Sig Sauer P226. He checked the magazine with a smooth, silent click before sliding the slide back into place.
"Conrad, wait—" Elena started to sit up, but he raised a finger, his eyes sharp.
"If the door opens and it's not me, put a bullet in whatever comes through it," he said, tossing a small backup Glock onto the leather sofa beside her. "You know how to shoot?"
"My father was a firearms instructor," she muttered, catching the heavy weapon with surprising dexterity despite her injured shoulder.
Conrad slipped out into the grand hallway. The house was dead silent, save for the low crackle of distant fireplaces and the steady patter of rain against the stained-glass skylights. The ambient lighting had flickered off, plunging the sprawling corridors into deep, velvety shadows.
EMP or a master power cut. Conrad mentally assessed the situation. They hadn't just breached the tunnel; they had disabled the grid.
He moved like a phantom along the wainscoting, his footsteps entirely soundless on the thick wool runners. Approaching the grand staircase, he caught a faint scent drifting down from the second floor—synthetic oil, high-grade tactical nylon, and a metallic tang that smelled distinctly of suppressed firearm solvent.
Professionals. Not local thugs like Salvatore. Ghost squad operatives.
Suddenly, a massive shadow detached itself from the darkness at the landing above.
It was Brutus.
The mastiff hadn't stayed in the foyer as ordered. Dogs like Brutus possessed a sixth sense for hostile intent. Without a single bark, the hundred-and-forty-pound beast launched itself from the top of the stairs straight into the chest of an infiltrator who had been creeping down toward the ground floor.
A muffled grunt of shock and pain echoed as man and beast collided, crashing down the carpeted steps in a tangle of limbs and snarls.
Conrad didn't hesitate. He raised his Sig Sauer and fired twice through the gloom.
Thud. Thud.
The second infiltrator, positioned on the balcony with a suppressed carbine, crumpled instantly, taking a round through the center mass before he could acquire his target.
Conrad sprinted to the base of the stairs, kicking the first operative off Brutus with a boot to the ribs. The man was wearing tactical black gear with no insignia—standard Nero Foundation cleaner uniform.
"Brutus, heel," Conrad commanded.
The mastiff stood over the fallen operative, its jaws dripping with blood—not its own. The man on the floor was already unconscious, bleeding heavily from a torn shoulder.
Conrad knelt beside the operative, ripping off his tactical mask. He froze.
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The face beneath the mask belonged to a man Conrad knew intimately. Marcus Vance.
Not Elena’s dead husband. Her brother.
