Chapter 4 - The Breach
“Flashbang!” Damon roared, dropping to one knee and slamming his eyes shut, turning his head away from the floor.
BOOM.
A blinding white concussion tore through the library, accompanied by a deafening shriek that rattled the glass in every bookcase. The air instantly filled with the acrid stench of magnesium and burning carpet.
Before the ringing in his ears had even begun to fade, heavy combat boots swarmed across the threshold.
“Sector clear! Sweep the corners!”
Damon moved through the white smoke like a ghost. He stepped out from behind the marble pillar as the first tactical operator cleared the doorframe, sweeping his rifle toward the empty desk.
With a swift, brutal motion, Damon grabbed the barrel of the man’s carbine, shoved it upward, and drove his elbow hard into the operator's throat. The man gasped, his weapon discharging uselessly into the ceiling as he collapsed backward.
Damon caught the falling rifle with his left hand, dropped his Glock into his pocket, and whipped around just as a second operative rushed through the smoke.
Crack.
The stock of the captured rifle slammed squarely into the man's chest, sending him crashing through a display case of rare antiques.
“We got movement near the fireplace!” a voice shouted from the hallway outside.
More boots thundered toward the room. Damon didn't hesitate. He vaulted over the mahogany desk just as a hail of suppressed gunfire chewed through the drywall where he had been standing a second earlier, showering him in plaster dust.
“Flank the desk! Flank the desk!”
Damon fired two rapid shots through the wooden privacy screen, hearing a muffled grunt as a round found its mark. But the sheer volume of incoming fire was staggering. Bullets chipped away at the marble edge of the fireplace, sending lethal grey shards flying through the air.
He needed to reach the panic room, but the doorway was blocked by three heavily armed men advancing in a classic wedge formation.
Suddenly, a sharp, deafening roar echoed from the eastern wing of the mansion—a heavy, unmistakable caliber.
Boom! Boom!
Marcus Ellery’s voice echoed down the corridor, booming over the din of battle. “Reyes! You’re surrounded by federal marshals! Drop your weapons!”
The tactical operators in the library froze, exchanging frantic glances in the dark.
Federal marshals?
Damon’s brow furrowed. Marcus had been supposed to take Selena and Ruby to the safehouse in Tucson. Why was he back—and why was he shouting about federal marshals?
Before the lead operator could process the warning, a bright, searing beam of tactical light cut through the smoke, illuminating the center of the room.
And standing right behind the lead tactical officer, holding a smoking shotgun with absolute, terrifying calm, wasn't Marcus.
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It was a woman Damon hadn't seen in six years.
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