Chapter 4 - The Siege of Astor Street
The rain had lessened to a fine, freezing mist by the time the fleet of five dark SUVs pulled up to the tree-lined avenue of Astor Street.
The Gold Coast district was silent. As Marco had promised, yellow emergency tape blocked off both ends of the street, and two fire engines sat at the intersection with their lights flashing silently, blocking public traffic. Not a single police officer was in sight.
Jane sat in the back of the lead SUV beside Marco. She wore a heavy black tactical coat over her clothes, the cold weight of the silver handgun resting securely in her coat pocket. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but it was no longer driven by fear. It was anticipation.
"Remember," Marco said quietly, reaching over to double-check the clasp on her coat. "Stay behind me and Viktor at all times. Once the breachers enter, the house will be secure in less than ninety seconds."
"I understand," Jane said.
Marco nodded to Leo in the front seat. "Go."
The front door of the Whitmore townhouse didn't just open; it exploded inward as heavy tactical breachers slammed a hydraulic ram into the reinforced frame.
The sound of shattering wood and tearing steel echoed down the quiet street. Instantaneous flashes of blinding white light and deafening booms filled the ground floor as flashbang grenades were tossed inside.
"Move! Move! Clear left!" high-pitched commands echoed from the tactical team as they flooded the marble foyer.
Shouts of panic erupted from inside the house, followed by the brief, sharp chatter of suppressed gunfire. Within forty-five seconds, the radio on Viktor's vest crackled to life.
"House secure. Guards neutralized. Target secured in the second-floor master suite."
Marco opened his car door and stepped out into the damp night air. He held his hand out to Jane, helping her step down onto the pavement.
Together, surrounded by a ring of six armed guards, they walked up the stone steps of the Whitmore estate.
The grand foyer was in ruins. Glass from the crystal chandelier lay shattered across the marble floor. Three of Charlotte’s private security guards were pinned to the ground in plastic flex-cuffs, bleeding from minor gunshot wounds, their weapons piled in a heap near the door.
Jane stepped over the broken wood of the front door, looking up at the grand winding staircase she had spent her childhood sweeping and polishing.
Marco led her up the stairs to the second floor.
Standing in the center of the luxurious master bedroom, surrounded by four heavily armed Duca operators, was Charlotte Whitmore.
Charlotte was wearing an elegant silk dressing gown, her platinum-blonde hair slightly disheveled. Her face was pale with fury, but her eyes still held that arrogant, aristocratic sneer that Jane knew all too well.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Charlotte shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at the tactical team. "Do you have any idea who I am? I have the Mayor on speed dial! I will have every single one of you thrown into federal prison!"
Then, Charlotte’s eyes moved past the guards and landed on Marco Duca.
And then she saw Jane standing beside him.
May you like
The sneer vanished from Charlotte’s face. Her mouth dropped open, and the last remaining color drained from her skin, leaving her looking like a ghost in her own bedroom.
"You..." Charlotte whispered, her voice cracking with pure, unadulterated terror. "You were supposed to be dead."
