Chapter 3 - SHADOWS IN THE GUEST WINGThe sudden blackout hit the mansion like a physical blow.
Up in the guest wing, Hannah Reed bolted upright from her bed, gasping for air as her lingering fever made her head spin. The digital clock on the bedside table blinked out, leaving the room illuminated only by the pale moonlight filtering through the heavy lace curtains.
“Ellie?” Hannah called out, her voice raspy and weak.
No answer.
Panic, sharper than any illness, seized her chest. She threw off the thin cotton blanket and stumbled toward the adjoining nursery. The door was ajar.
The room was empty. The small toddler bed was unmade, the warm indentation of a little body still visible on the mattress.
“Ellie! Ellie, baby, where are you?” Hannah cried, tears springing to her eyes as she searched the dark corners of the room.
On the hardwood floor near the window lay a crayon box and a fresh piece of paper. Hannah picked it up with trembling fingers. By the faint moonlight, she saw that Ellie had drawn another picture: a tall man in a dark coat standing by the hallway door, holding out a shiny silver candy wrapper.
Someone was in the house.
Downstairs, the heavy oak study door burst open. Damian shoved Marcus backward into the hallway, slamming the traitor’s face against the wall with enough force to crack plaster. Blood sprayed from Marcus’s nose, but the security chief grinned maniacally, his teeth stained red.
“You can’t save them both, Damian!” Marcus choked out as Damian pressed a heavy boot onto his chest. “The northern perimeter has already fallen. The Vanguard Syndicate is inside. They don’t want your money—they want your head, and they want the girl who saw too much.”
Damian didn’t hesitate. He brought the butt of his pistol down hard across Marcus’s temple, sending the traitor crashing unconscious to the floor.
Stepping over the bleeding body, Damian sprinted down the grand staircase, his mind racing. Hannah and Ellie. If the syndicate had breached the northern wing, they were heading straight for the guest quarters.
As he reached the ground floor, the emergency backup generator kicked in with a low, agonizing groan. Pale amber emergency lights flickered to life along the baseboards, casting long, eerie shadows across the marble foyer.
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And then, a sound echoed from the western corridor—a chilling, childish giggle followed by a man’s harsh whisper:
“Gotcha, little mouse.”
