Chapter 7 - THE STORM OVER VERMONTWe didn't leave for Vermont the next morning.
At 4:00 AM, before the sun could break over the Baltimore harbor, the perimeter alarms at Grayhaven House cut through the quiet night like a screaming siren.
WAAAH! WAAAH! WAAAH!
Red emergency lights flashed through the corridors, casting violent, blood-colored shadows across the marble floors.
I bolted awake in the guest suite on the second floor, pulling Lila into my arms as the heavy oak doors were thrown open.
Damian stepped inside, fully geared in a black tactical vest, holding a heavy assault rifle across his chest. His face was set in granite.
“They’re here,” Damian said calmly, though the urgency in his eyes contradicted his tone. “The Syndicate Council sent three armored strike teams through the south gates. They cut the main power lines.”
“What about Marco?” I cried out, wrapping a blanket around Lila’s shoulders.
“Marco is holding the front courtyard with six men,” Damian said, grabbing my arm and pulling me out into the corridor. “We don't have time. They came with heavy weapons. We’re taking the underground utility tunnel to the docks.”
As we sprinted down the east wing stairs, the sound of heavy automatic gunfire echoed from the front gates, accompanied by the dull, thundering thud of grenade explosions.
The air in the grand foyer was already filling with tear gas and smoke.
Damian led us down into the basement, bypassing the kitchen, straight toward the heavy steel door of the wine vault where Viktor had been locked up hours earlier.
As we passed the door, I noticed the heavy iron bar was thrown back. The door stood wide open.
The cell was empty.
Damian froze, his eyes widening. “Marco! Who guarded the basement?!”
Before his radio could crackle an answer, a shadow stepped out from behind a large concrete pillar near the utility entrance.
BANG!
A gunshot shattered the dark basement.
Damian grunted, stumbling backward as a high-caliber bullet caught him in the right shoulder, spinning him around. He hit the concrete floor, his rifle clattering away across the dark stone.
Standing in the shadows, holding a smoking pistol with a bleeding face and a twisted, broken wrist, was Viktor.
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Beside him stood four grey-clad operatives belonging to the Syndicate Council, their submachine guns aimed straight at us.
“Did you really think I didn't have a duplicate key to the cellar, Damian?” Viktor laughed, his voice raspy, crazy with pain and rage. “I built this house with you! I know every brick!”
