Chapter 14 - The Breach
The sound was not an explosion of fire, but the violent impact of a tactical ram against reinforced steel.
The deadbolt tore out of the doorframe with a shriek of bending metal. Glass shattered as flashbang canisters rolled into the living room, filling the split-level house with blinding white light and a deafening, high-pitched screech that rattled the fillings in Vivian’s teeth.
"Down! Get down!" Marcus Vance roared, throwing his body across Vivian, knocking her backward behind the reinforced steel refrigerator as automatic gunfire erupted from the front porch.
The air instantly filled with pulverized drywall, acrid cordite smoke, and the sharp zip of high-velocity rounds tearing through the kitchen cabinets. Dishes exploded into ceramic shards; flour and sugar rained down like toxic snow.
Through the ringing in her ears, Vivian heard the shouting of the two federal marshals stationed in the living room. Return fire roared—heavy, rhythmic shotgun blasts answered by the disciplined, suppressed chatter of automatic carbines.
"Marshal down! Marshal down!" a voice screamed from the front hallway, followed by the wet, sickening thud of a body hitting the floorboards.
Vivian curled into a ball, her hands wrapped tight around her abdomen, shielding her unborn child with her own spine. She wasn't crying. The time for tears had ended when she walked out into the blizzard.
Marcus was already reaching inside his wool overcoat. The elderly lawyer didn't pull out a legal brief—he drew a polished stainless steel Colt .45, cocked the hammer with his thumb, and leaned his back against the counter, his breathing ragged but steady.
"Camille!" Vivian screamed over the gunfire. "Camille is in the back bedroom!"
"Stay where you are!" Marcus shouted back. "They aren't here for Camille!"
Footsteps in heavy tactical boots crunched across the broken glass in the living room. A voice barked in Russian, followed by an immediate command in English: *"Secure the package! Alive! Draven wants her alive!"*
Matteo’s mercenaries.
He hadn't even waited for the bail hearing. He had activated the extraction team the moment the transport van left his estate.
Vivian saw a shadow cross the kitchen entrance—a man in black tactical gear, an assault rifle raised to his shoulder.
Marcus leaned out from behind the refrigerator and fired twice. The massive .45 caliber rounds blew through the kitchen doorway with thunderous concussions. The mercenary collapsed with a choked grunt, his weapon clattering across the linoleum.
"Basement!" Marcus yelled, grabbing Vivian’s arm and hauling her to her feet with strength that belied his age. "The utility closet in the hallway has a storm cellar hatch! Move, Vivian! Now!"
Vivian stumbled into the smoke-choked hallway. The air was thick with gray fog that burned her eyes and throat. Near the front door, one of the federal marshals lay motionless in a pool of dark blood.
Before Vivian could reach the utility closet, the back bedroom door flew open. Camille stumbled out, coughing violently, her hands raised in sheer panic. "Vivian! Vivian, they’re inside the yard—"
A second mercenary rounded the corner from the living room, his rifle leveling directly at Camille’s chest.
"Camille, get down!" Vivian screamed.
Without thinking, Vivian lunged forward. She didn't have a weapon, but her shoulder slammed into Camille, knocking her younger sister sideways into the bathroom as a burst of automatic fire ripped through the bedroom doorframe where Camille had been standing. Splinters of wood slashed Vivian’s cheek, leaving hot trails of blood across her skin.
Marcus Vance fired three rapid shots down the narrow corridor. The mercenary scrambled backward around the corner to reload.
"The hatch! Go!" Marcus shoved both sisters toward the narrow utility door beneath the stairs.
Vivian ripped the closet door open, pushed through mops and cleaning supplies, and grabbed the iron ring set into the floorboards. With a surge of adrenaline, she yanked the heavy wooden hatch upward, revealing a steep concrete stairway descending into absolute blackness.
"Down! Both of you!" Marcus ordered, standing at the top of the opening, his weapon pointed at the smoky corridor.
Camille scrambled down the stairs first, tumbling onto the cold concrete floor below. Vivian followed, clutching the wooden handrail, her pregnant body clumsy and aching, but her focus razor-sharp.
Just as Vivian’s boots hit the basement floor, Marcus reached down to pull the hatch shut—and froze.
A sharp, metallic *clack* echoed from the top of the stairs.
Vivian looked up through the opening.
Standing in the smoke-filled doorway above Marcus Vance was not a Russian mercenary in tactical gear.
It was Matteo Draven.
He was wearing an unbuttoned overcoat over his tailored suit, his tie loosened, his hands bare. The handcuffs were gone. His knuckles were bruised, and a streak of dried blood marked his collar, but his gray eyes were completely clear, cold, and entirely in control.
Behind him stood two armed men with suppressed submachine guns.
May you like
"Did you really believe fifty-two federal indictments meant anything in this county, Uncle Marcus?" Matteo said smoothly, stepping into the utility closet. He looked down through the hatch, his eyes fixing on Vivian in the darkness below. "I told you, Vivian. You don't have ninety days. You don't even have until sunrise."
***
