Chapter 7 - Fire in the East Wing
The estate’s emergency lighting instantly kicked on, casting a dull, amber glow across the grand mahogany study.
Julian didn't panic. His reaction was instantaneous and terrifyingly disciplined. He reached beneath his desk, pulling out a concealed keypad, and punched in a four-digit code.
A panel in the wall slid open, revealing a rack of tactical gear and automatic weaponry.
“Roman,” Julian commanded, racking the slide of a sleek black pistol with practiced ease. “Lock down the third floor. Move Dr. Vance’s medical team into the primary vault. Secure Grace in the inner panic room.”
“Understood, Don Vance,” Roman acknowledged, turning to sprint down the hallway.
Julian turned to Lena, grabbing a lightweight ballistic vest from the rack and tossing it to her. “Put this on under your sweater.”
“What’s happening?” Lena demanded, her hands trembling as she pulled the heavy Kevlar vest over her head.
“Arthur isn't waiting for negotiations,” Julian said coldly, strapping a tactical holster to his shoulder. “He realizes Grace was here, and he assumes I’ve moved against him. He’s striking first.”
A sudden, sharp explosion rocked the eastern wing of the manor. The heavy crystal chandelier in the study rattled violently, dust falling from the high ceiling.
Glass shattered downstairs, followed immediately by the rapid, rhythmic chatter of automatic gunfire echoing through the marble halls.
“Stay behind me,” Julian ordered, pulling a second weapon from the wall and tossing it onto the desk in front of her—a small, silver 9mm handgun. “Do you know how to use that?”
“My mother made me take a safety course when I was sixteen,” Lena said, her throat dry as she picked up the cold steel.
“Good. Point it at anyone who isn't wearing a black tie, and pull the trigger until it stops clicking,” Julian said flatly.
He opened the study door and stepped into the hallway, Lena right on his heels.
The estate had transformed into a war zone. Smoke drifted down the grand corridor, smelling of cordite and burning wood. Muzzle flashes illuminated the far staircase as Vance’s security guards exchanged heavy fire with masked intruders in tactical gear.
“This way!” Julian instructed, guiding her toward the secondary service staircase that led to the third floor. “We need to reach Grace.”
They scrambled up the narrow steps just as a grenade detonated on the floor below, sending a shockwave through the timber structure that nearly knocked Lena off her feet.
When they reached the third-floor landing, the steel door to Sophia’s room was wide open.
Two of Vance’s guards lay motionless on the floor. Standing in the center of the clinical room, surrounded by green medical monitors, was a tall man in an expensive gray coat.
He had slicked-back silver hair, a cruel, angular face, and eyes that held zero warmth.
Arthur Moretti.
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In his hand, Arthur held a small, silver remote detonator. And standing beside the hospital bed, held firmly by one of Moretti’s armed men, was little Grace.
“Hello, Julian,” Arthur said smoothly, his voice sounding like dry leaves sliding across concrete. “It’s been a long time.”
