Chapter 7 - Blood in the Fog
I backed out of the holding room, scanning the dim, narrow corridors of the sub-basement with my pistol raised. The lights flickered once, twice, and then went completely black as the estate’s backup generator was hit by an external charge somewhere near the main gate.
Emergency red backup LEDs clicked on along the baseboards, casting long, bloody shadows across the stone floor.
“Ethan!” I yelled into my comm-link.
Static hissed in my earpiece, followed by the sound of heavy firing overhead. “Boss! They hit the north wing! We’ve got two down in the gallery—they’re using breach charges—”
“Listen to me!” I barked over the gunfire. “They bypassed the security grid. They’re not looking for cash or art. They’re hunting the basement!”
“Copy that—moving a team down now—”
The link cut out with a sharp squeal of feedback.
I moved silently down the corridor toward the secondary utility exit—a narrow, forgotten concrete tunnel that led out to the rocky cliffside beneath the boat-house. It was a route my father had built during the prohibition era for discreet cargo deliveries, known only to direct bloodline Mercer men.
And apparently, someone else.
As I rounded the corner near the utility junction, I caught a flicker of movement against the red emergency lights.
A figure in a matte-black tactical jumpsuit was moving swiftly toward the heavy iron bulkhead door leading to the cliff tunnel, holding a heavy canvas baby carrier strapped securely across their chest.
“Stop right there!” I roared, leveling my pistol directly at the intruder's back.
The figure froze instantly.
Slowly, deliberately, the operative turned around. Through the tinted night-vision goggles, I couldn't see their eyes, but I saw the weapon—a suppressed submachine gun raised and pointed straight at my chest.
“Drop the gun, Mr. Mercer,” a synthetic, modulated voice hissed through the operative’s comm-unit. “Or the kid takes a round.”
My finger tightened on the trigger of my Sig Sauer. My heart hammered against my ribs with the furious intensity of a war drum.
“You take one step toward that door,” I whispered, every drop of blood in my veins turning to ice, “and I promise you won’t make it out of this tunnel alive.”
The operative chuckled—a cold, mechanical sound. “Mr. Sterling sends his regards. He said family should always stick together.”
The operative’s finger twitched on the trigger of the submachine gun—
Bang.
A deafening roar echoed through the narrow concrete tunnel.
May you like
Not from my gun.
From behind the operative.
