Chapter 3 - SHADOWS IN THE BLUEPRINT"Flashlight," I muttered, grabbing Ethan’s arm to pull him flat against the stone wall.
"I don't have one," Ethan whispered back, his breath warm against my ear. His hand found my shoulder, steadying himself in the dark. "My phone is dead."
"Mine is on," I said, clicking on the tactical mini-beam attached to the underside of my pistol.
The harsh white light cut through the dust-filled air, illuminating a terrifying sight. Ten feet ahead of us, a section of the wooden wall paneling—one I had checked and cataloged during my initial sweep—was sliding inward.
Someone was inside the wall. Not an intruder coming from the outside, but someone who knew the exact blueprints of the Blackwood estate down to the millimeter.
"Tyler, get down!" I ordered.
The boy had already collapsed into a ball on the floor, weeping quietly.
I inched forward, my boots making no sound against the Persian rug that lined this section of the passage. As the wall panel slid completely open, the beam of my light caught a pair of polished Italian leather shoes.
Then came the trousers. Tailored charcoal wool. The exact same brand worn by Grant Blackwood’s head of security, Marcus Vance.
Only Marcus wasn't holding a security baton. He was holding a military-grade sniper rifle with a thermal scope mounted to the top.
"Marcus," I called out, stepping into the opening with my weapon raised and locked directly on his chest. "Drop the rifle. Now."
Marcus didn't flinch. He slowly turned his head toward me, a cold, empty smile playing on his lips. There was no fear in his eyes. Only a profound, chilling exhaustion.
"You're a persistent little thing, aren't you, Whitaker's reject?" Marcus's voice was calm, dripping with mockery. "The director told me you couldn't handle a desk job, let alone a war zone. Guess the old man was half right. You're standing right where I want you."
"Where is Grant?" Ethan demanded, pushing past me despite my warning, his voice shaking with fury. "Marcus, you've been with our family for fifteen years! My father trusted you with his life!"
"Your father trusted money," Marcus corrected smoothly. "And the Vance family offered a lot more than loyalty to a dying dynasty."
Marcus didn't raise his rifle to shoot us. Instead, his thumb hovered over a small red toggle switch wired into the wall beside him.
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"The best part about building a fortress, Ethan," Marcus whispered, his eyes gleaming with madness, "is that you always leave a self-destruct button for the man who paid for the bricks."
Before I could pull the trigger, Marcus slammed his thumb down hard onto the toggle.
