Chapter 3 - THE INTRUDERGriffin moved purely on instinct forged from years of surviving high-level corporate warfare and assassination attempts.
He lunged toward the sofa, scooping both girls into his arms before they even had time to scream. He dragged them behind the heavy walnut desk in the corner of the room just as the heavy glass door of the ICU suite swung open.
A silhouette clad in tactical black stepped inside, holding a silenced pistol fitted with a red laser sight. The crimson beam swept across the room, illuminating the white bedsheets, the monitor, and the empty sofa.
"I know you're in here, Drake," a low, rasping voice echoed through the dark room. "Give us the key and the girls. You don't have to die for a woman who lied to you for eight years."
In the dark behind the desk, Griffin pressed his hand over Iris's mouth, feeling her tiny frame trembling violently against his chest. Hazel pressed her forehead against his ribs, tears silent against his dress shirt.
"Who sent you?" Griffin’s voice sounded cold, dripping with lethal intent from the shadows.
"Someone who owned Sloan long before you ever bought her that diamond ring," the assassin chuckled, stepping closer to the bed. "She stole something that doesn't belong to her. Hand over the key, Griffin, or I turn off her life support right now."
The laser sight pointed directly at Sloan’s chest.
Griffin didn't hesitate.
He didn't scream or bargain. He silently pulled his heavy metal Montblanc pen from his breast pocket, lunged out from behind the desk, and slammed the sharp tungsten point directly into the assassin's throat.
The man gasped, dropping the weapon as blood spurted out. Griffin tackled him to the floor, disarming him with brutal, military efficiency, slamming the intruder’s head against the marble floor until the body went limp.
The hallway lights flickered back on.
Vance burst through the door, gun drawn, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. "Boss! Are you alright?"
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Griffin stood up, wiping blood off his tailored cuff. His eyes were pure ice.
"Call my private jet," Griffin ordered, pulling the small brass key out from beneath Hazel’s blanket where she had tucked it. "We are leaving Seattle tonight."
