Chapter 6 - THE FLASH IN THE DARKThe snap of the silenced pistol was drowned out by my own movement.
I whipped the flash-bang from my belt, yanked the pin with my teeth, and hurled it directly against the marble fireplace hearth to our left just as the bullet whressed past my ear, embedding itself deep into the wall panel behind us.
FLASH!
A blinding, magnesium-white explosion lit up the guest room with the intensity of a thousand suns, accompanied by a concussive shockwave that shattered every window pane in the east wing.
"Agh!" Beatrice screamed, dropping her teacup as she threw her hands over her eyes, temporarily blinded and deafened by the deafening blast.
"Run!" I yelled at Ethan, grabbing his arm and hauling him toward the blown-out balcony doors.
We vaulted over the stone railing just as Beatrice fired wildly into the empty air behind us, the bullets chipping harmlessly against the stone pillars.
We hit the manicured lawn of the courtyard hard, rolling across the wet grass to break our momentum. The cold night air hit my lungs like ice water. Around us, the mansion's automated emergency sprinklers kicked on, soaking us to the bone in seconds as water rained down from the eaves.
"Are you hit?" I asked, quickly scanning Ethan as we crouched behind a marble fountain.
"No, I’m fine—damn it, my shoulder is scraped, but I'm fine," Ethan panted, wiping blood and dirt from his cheek. He looked back up at the burning east wing, his expression hardening from shock into pure, cold fury. "She killed my mother’s memory. She helped destroy everything my father built."
"Your father isn't dead yet," I reminded him. "And if Beatrice is up there, Grant is either dealing with Marcus or he's already trapped."
Before Ethan could answer, the heavy oak doors of the main entrance blasted open with a deafening crash.
A towering silhouette stepped out into the pouring rain and the flashing red lights.
Grant Blackwood.
He was holding a smoking 12-gauge shotgun in one hand, his expensive bespoke suit torn at the shoulder, blood smeared across his cheek. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—were burning with an absolute, terrifying rage.
He looked down at us by the fountain, his gaze locking instantly onto his son.
"Ethan," Grant’s voice boomed over the hiss of the sprinklers. "Get away from her."
"Father!" Ethan stood up, ignoring my warning hand. "Aunt Beatrice and Marcus rigged the house! They're working with the Vance family and Whitaker! They tried to kill us!"
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Grant didn't look surprised. In fact, a dark, dangerous smile crept across his lips.
"I know," Grant said softly, leveling the shotgun straight at my chest. "And you brought an outside agency spy right into the heart of my home to watch it all burn."
