Chapter 6 - The Flames of the North Wing
The tongue of orange flame greedily licked up the mahogany doorframe, feeding on the dry paneling and casting a violent, flickering dance across the nursery walls. Thick black smoke began to roll along the vaulted ceiling, stinging my eyes and forcing a harsh cough from Leah’s small chest.
“Clara, give me her!” Damian shouted over the roar of the spreading fire, closing the distance between us in two long strides.
Without hesitation, I thrust Leah into his arms. He cradled her securely against his chest with one arm, using his body as a human shield, while his free hand grabbed my wrist in a grip of iron.
“We have to move now,” Damian ordered, his voice sharp, authoritative, and stripped of all hesitation. “The cross-breezes from the shattered balcony are feeding the fire directly into this corridor.”
I glanced back toward the corner where Julian Vance lay slumped unconscious against the baseboard, the smoke thickening rapidly around him.
“What about him?” I yelled, coughing as the acrid air burned my throat.
“Let the fire take what’s left of him,” Damian replied coldly, turning toward the private emergency stairwell hidden behind the nursery’s walk-in closet. “He chose his grave.”
We plunged into the narrow, steel-reinforced stairwell just as a loud crash signaled the partial collapse of the hallway ceiling behind us. The metal steps were cold under our feet as we descended into the subterranean levels of the estate, the sound of sirens outside growing louder and more frantic with every second.
When we finally burst through the heavy fire exit door into the lower courtyard, the cool night air hit us like a physical revival.
Paramedics and armed tactical guards swarmed the grounds. Flashing red and blue lights painted the stone facade of the burning mansion in violent strokes, while powerful water hoses hissed as they blasted torrents of foam against the north wing.
As Damian set Leah gently down on the stretcher of an awaiting ambulance, the little girl let out a sharp cry and threw her arms back around my neck, refusing to let go.
“I’m here, baby. Mama’s right here,” I whispered, burying my face in her dark curls as a paramedic shined a penlight into her eyes.
Damian stood beside us, his face smudged with soot, watching the exchange with an expression so intense and fiercely protective that it eclipsed the chaos of the entire crime scene.
Before the medic could check Damian’s own bleeding shoulder, a heavy-set man in a tailored gray suit pushed past the police perimeter line, his phone pressed tightly to his ear.
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“Boss,” the man said, breathless and pale. “The perimeter is locked down. Local authorities have the surviving mercenaries in custody, but... you need to look at this tablet right now.”
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