Chapter 5 - Fire in the Foyer
The concussive blast rattled the antique chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings of the foyer, showering the hardwood floors with shards of crystal and pulverized oak. Acrid, white-hot smoke billowed down the grand hallway, smelling violently of sulfur and high explosives.
“They’re in!” Harper shrieked, ducking her head as a spray of drywall dust rained down from above.
“Keep moving! Do not stop!” Claire ordered, her voice cutting through the ringing in our ears like a razor blade.
We cut hard to the left, darting through the private family service corridors that bypassed the main staircase. These halls were narrow, unadorned, and dark—designed for domestic staff carrying laundry and catering trays, but right now, they were our best chance at avoiding the kill zone in the front foyer.
Ahead of us, Vance stumbled, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps as I shoved him forward by the scruff of his expensive necktie.
“Keep walking, Vance,” I growled, pressing the cold barrel of my pistol against the base of his skull. “One false move and I won't even wait for the syndicate to finish you.”
“You’re insane, Julian!” Vance choked out, his voice cracking with sheer terror. “They have fifty men in the city! You can't outrun them! You can't hide!”
“I don't need to outrun them,” I replied coldly. “I just need to bury you.”
We burst through the heavy fire door leading out to the rear stone terrace. The cold Chicago night air hit us like a physical blow, carrying the damp, metallic scent of Lake Michigan and freezing rain. Dark, heavy clouds swallowed the moonlight, plunging the vast expanse of our private lawns into deep, shadowy gloom.
Down the winding stone pathway, about two hundred yards away, the historic stone boathouse sat like a dark, jagged tooth against the dark water of the lake.
And right as we cleared the terrace steps, a pair of high-powered tactical spotlights sliced through the darkness from the side gardens.
Zzzzt.
A suppressed round whipped through the air inches from my ear, chewing a neat, lethal hole into the cedar siding of the house behind us.
“Down!” Claire shouted.
She dropped instantly, shielding little Emma with her own body against the cold stone of the patio while using her free hand to draw a small, compact submachine gun from a concealed harness beneath her apron. Where she had acquired an MP5 submachine gun in the span of six weeks working as a domestic maid was a question for another day—right now, I was just profoundly grateful she had it.
Rat-tat-tat-tat.
Four short, suppressed bursts erupted from Claire’s weapon. Across the lawn, near the edge of the rose garden, a muffled curse rang out, followed by the heavy sound of a body crashing into the frozen shrubbery.
“That’s one element down!” Claire yelled over the wind, not a single tremor in her voice. “They’re flanking us from the greenhouse! Mr. Vale, take the girls toward the tree line! I’ll cover the rear!”
“I’m not leaving you here to hold off an army by yourself!” I shouted back, firing two blind shots toward the garden shadows with my pistol.
“You’re not abandoning me, you’re securing your daughters!” Claire snapped, her amber eyes blazing with an intensity that brooked zero argument. “Go! Now! I’ll catch up at the drainage culvert!”
Before I could answer, a second spotlight flared to life, illuminating the entire patio in harsh, blinding white light.
From the shadows of the main driveway, a heavy armored tactical vehicle rolled slowly over our manicured lawn, its mounted spotlight locking directly onto the spot where we stood.
And through the megaphone mounted on the roof, a cold, amplified voice echoed across the estate:
May you like
“Julian Vale! This is your final warning! Send out the maid and the children, and we make this quick. Refuse, and we burn the entire property to the ground with you inside it!”
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