Chapter 8 - The Desperate Move
Margaret let out a feral shriek of rage, realizing she had been outplayed. “If I’m going down, the boy goes with me!”
Her thumb slammed down on the plunger.
Time seemed to fracture.
Before I could even draw breath, Ethan moved with blinding, unnatural speed. He didn’t shoot at Margaret; instead, he hurled his pistol like a heavy metal projectile directly at her wrist. The gun struck her arm with a sickening thwack, deflecting the syringe upward just as the plunger bottomed out.
A fine mist of liquid sprayed harmlessly into the night air above Noah’s head.
Margaret stumbled back, clutching her bruised wrist, screaming obscenities. But before she could make another move, the glasshouse doors blew wide open with a deafening crash.
Three flash-bang grenades rolled across the stone floor, detonating in a blinding series of concussive pops and blinding white light.
“FBI! Federal task force! Nobody move!” shouted a dozen voices simultaneously as heavily armed tactical agents poured into the conservatory from every entrance, overwhelming the space with laser sights and tactical shields.
Margaret was swarmed instantly, slammed facedown onto the wet stone floor and handcuffed with brutal efficiency.
I didn't care about the agents. I broke into a dead sprint toward the center rotunda, throwing myself onto my knees beside Noah’s chair.
“Noah! Noah, can you hear me?!” I cried, frantically checking his pulse at his neck.
Noah’s eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at me, his vision blurry, but a faint, exhausted smile touched his lips. “Clara... we won?”
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“We won, buddy,” I sobbed, tears finally breaking free and streaming down my cheeks as I frantically untied the ropes binding his wrists. “You’re safe. You’re going home.”
Ethan dropped to his knees beside us, his strong hands gently wrapping around his son’s shoulders. The cold, ruthless mafia boss was gone; in his place was simply a father holding his miracle child.
