Chapter 17
The dust slowly began to settle around the massive iron block, revealing Brooke standing in the dim light. Her pale blush satin hospital robe was ruined, stained with mud and soot, her hair wild around her face. But her stance was unbreakable—an apex predator standing over a cornered, pathetic animal.
Garrett stared up at her, trembling violently as the freezing rain blew in through the open door behind them. "Brooke... you... you tried to kill me."
"I missed," Brooke said coldly, her voice carrying an absolute, terrifying calm that chilled Garrett to the bone. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be breathing right now. Consider that block of iron a warning."
The mercenaries hastily raised their weapons, aiming them at Brooke from twenty feet away. "Drop your weapon, ma'am, or we turn you into mist," the lead mercenary warned, his finger tightening on his trigger.
Before Brooke could respond, the heavy iron doors at the entrance of the foundry were violently blown inward with a deafening explosion.
Flashing red and blue emergency lights instantly painted the cavernous interior in harsh, strobing colors. A dozen tactical vehicles—bearing the private insignia of Vance Security—poured into the foundry, their heavy tires screeching against the wet concrete. Heavily armed Vane operatives flooded the building, their automatic weapons swarming the mercenaries before they could pivot their rifles.
"Drop your weapons! Do it now! Down on the ground, hands behind your head!" Marcus Vance’s voice boomed over a high-powered tactical bullhorn as he stepped out of the lead armored vehicle, flanked by an impenetrable wall of armed guards.
The mercenaries looked at each other, glanced at their outnumbered position, and slowly let their assault rifles drop to the concrete, raising their hands in surrender.
Garrett remained on his knees, staring in numb disbelief as Marcus walked toward them through the falling rain and swirling dust. The terrifying patriarch of the Vance empire looked like a king claiming a conquered province.
"You're ruined, Garrett," Marcus said, stopping a few feet away and looking down at his son-in-law with utter contempt. "Your accounts are frozen, your shell corporations are dissolved, and your mercenaries are currently facing federal terrorism charges. You have nothing."
"Marcus... please," Garrett whimpered, his arrogance entirely shattered as he reached out a trembling hand toward his father-in-law's tailored charcoal overcoat. "We're family. We can work this out."
"You lost the right to call yourself family the moment you brought a mistress into my daughter's delivery room and tried to steal her children," Marcus stated flatly. He nodded to two Vane operatives standing nearby. "Take him away. Put him in the private holding facility beneath the estate. Let the federal prosecutors pick over whatever scraps are left of him."
As the operatives hauled a screaming, thrashing Garrett toward an armored van, Marcus turned his attention to his daughter. His stern expression melted instantly, replaced by a deep, overwhelming paternal pride.
"Are you alright, Brooke?" Marcus asked, stepping forward and pulling her into a fierce, protective embrace, ignoring the mud and soot staining his expensive suit.
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"I'm fine, Dad," Brooke whispered, resting her head against his shoulder for a brief second before pulling back. "Where are the twins?"
"The co-pilot brought them out through the drainage pipe ten minutes ago," Marcus assured her. "They’re in the warm transport vehicle with a neonatal team. They're completely safe."
