Chapter 10 - The Shadow in the Hallway
My pulse roared in my ears like a freight train. Every maternal instinct flared into blinding, white-hot survival mode. Samuel and Owen were sleeping soundly down the hall in the west wing, completely oblivious to the predator moving through the downstairs corridor.
I didn't have time to call the police. The landline in the study was dead, and my cell phone was sitting on the library desk—out of reach, displaying zero cellular bars due to a portable signal jammer the intruder must have brought inside.
I slipped back into the library, my bare feet making no sound against the Persian rug. My eyes darted around the room, searching for anything—a heavy book, a brass paperweight, a weapon. Nothing.
Footsteps began to ascend the grand staircase. Creak. Creak. Slow, deliberate, and heavy.
I grabbed the heavy mahogany chair from the library desk, dragging it silently across the floor toward the doorway. I positioned myself right beside the frame, lifting the chair with both hands, muscles straining under its weight.
The footsteps reached the landing. A gloved hand appeared around the edge of the doorway, holding the dark barrel of a silenced pistol.
Without hesitating for a fraction of a second, I swung the heavy mahogany chair downward with all the force left in my body, smashing it directly across the intruder’s wrist.
A sharp curse echoed down the hallway as the pistol clattered uselessly against the hardwood floor.
The intruder—a broad-shouldered man with a black ski mask pulled down over his face—stumbled backward, clutching his injured wrist. But before I could swing the chair a second time, he lunged forward with terrifying speed, slamming me backward against the bookshelves.
Books rained down around us in a chaotic avalanche. I fought back, kicking, scratching, and screaming, but his grip was like iron bands crushing my ribs. He pinned my arms against my sides, his gloved hand rising toward my throat to cut off my air supply.
“You shouldn't have gone digging into things that were buried, Mrs. Hollis,” a harsh, raspy voice hissed behind the mask.
My vision began to darken at the edges, spots dancing in front of my eyes as my lungs burned for oxygen. I reached out blindly across the shelf behind his head, my fingers grazing against the sharp edge of a heavy bronze bookend.
With a final, desperate burst of adrenaline, I gripped the bronze heavy metal, whipped my arm around, and struck him squarely across the temple.
The man groaned, his grip instantly loosening. He collapsed backward onto the floor, unconscious.
I dropped to my knees, gasping for air, coughing violently as oxygen rushed back into my starved lungs. I didn't wait to see if he would wake up. I scrambled across the floor, grabbed my cell phone off the desk—which miraculously flickered back to life as the intruder’s signal jammer rolled out of his tactical pocket—and dialed 911 with a shaking thumb.
“911, what is your emergency?” a calm dispatcher’s voice answered.
“My name is Elena Lane,” I gasped, pressing the phone to my ear as I kept my eyes locked on the unconscious intruder on the floor. “An intruder has breached my home at 1404 Oakridge Lane. Send armed units immediately. And notify federal marshal jurisdiction—Adrian Hollis’s clean-up crew is here.”
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Before the dispatcher could reply, my phone buzzed violently in my hand with an incoming priority alert from an unknown number. I glanced down at the illuminated screen.
It was a live GPS ping coordinate, accompanied by a single text message from an unregistered sender: The Dulles Airport locker will be cleared out in twenty minutes. If you want your father’s real legacy back, come alone.
