Chapter 8 - The North Wing Ambush
The heavy scent of cordite and fresh blood flooded the private study as Thomas’s words hung in the air like a death sentence. Gideon didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. The momentary shock of Sarah’s sudden resurrection vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, surgical focus of a warlord whose domain had been violated.
“How?” Gideon demanded, his voice cracking like a whip as he vaulted across the room toward the weapons rack concealed behind a mahogany bookshelf. He slid the biometric panel open, his fingers snatching a customized Sig MPX submachine gun and two spare high-capacity magazines, shoving them into his tactical harness with practiced speed.
“We don't know,” Thomas panted, pressing a hand against the bleeding laceration on his temple. “The cameras in the north wing didn't get jammed; they got looped. Someone patched a clean twenty-second feed into the monitors while a tactical team moved through the service tunnels beneath the floorboards. They didn't breach the doors—they came up through the cellar.”
Sarah stepped up beside Gideon, her hands already moving across the tactical vest she wore beneath her turtleneck, pulling out a pair of suppressed Beretta 92FS pistols. “It’s Vance’s cleanup crew,” she said, her voice sharp and icy. “They realized I accessed the master archive. They knew we’d figure out where Ren is being held, and they’re tying up loose ends by taking the leverage back.”
Gideon’s eyes met Sarah’s across the dim workspace. There was no time for tears, no room for the twenty years of grief and betrayal that separated them. Right now, they were two apex predators hunting the same prey.
“Thomas,” Gideon ordered, racking the bolt of the MPX with a sharp, metallic clack. “Take the perimeter exits. Cut off the rear service road leading down to the lake. If anyone tries to leave this estate in a vehicle, turn them into hamburger meat.”
“What about you, Boss?” Thomas asked, raising his rifle.
“I’m going hunting,” Gideon replied coldly.
He didn't wait for confirmation. Turning on his heel, he burst out of the study and sprinted down the dimly lit corridor toward the north wing, Sarah right on his heels like a shadow. The mansion was dead silent, the storm outside still howling against the reinforced glass windows, but the interior air felt dense, heavy with the unmistakable metallic tang of impending slaughter.
As they reached the guest suite where Maya and Lily had been housed, the heavy mahogany door hung off its hinges, splintered cleanly down the center by an explosive breaching charge. Inside, the room was a war zone. The antique dresser was overturned, lamps were shattered across the Persian rugs, and deep scorch marks scarred the floral wallpaper.
Gideon stepped into the room, his weapon raised, scanning every dark corner. The window leading out to the second-story balcony was blown out, shards of glass sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight filtering through the breaking clouds.
He walked slowly to the shattered window and looked down into the muddy courtyard below. There, stamped into the wet gravel beneath the balcony, were heavy tactical boot prints—and right beside them, the tiny, distinct muddy footprints of two little girls being dragged toward a idling black transport van parked near the greenhouse.
“They’re heading for the secondary dock,” Sarah muttered, coming up behind him and peering over his shoulder into the courtyard. “Vance has a hydrofoil waiting on the river. If they reach the water, we’ll never catch them before they cross the state line into Wisconsin.”
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Gideon’s jaw set into a hard, unforgiving line. He spun away from the window, his voice cutting through the silence of the ravaged room with terrifying authority.
“Let’s go down to the water.”
