Chapter 33 - The Siege of Beacon Hill
The ninety-mile stretch from Rhode Island to Boston usually took an hour and a half under optimal conditions. In a blizzard, it was supposed to be impossible.
We did it in forty-four minutes.
State police cruisers, alerted through Julian’s highest-level federal backchannels, cleared the highway ahead of us, their blue and red lights cutting blinding swathes through the driving snow. When our black Suburban crested the hill onto Mount Vernon Street, the historic cobblestone lane looked like a war zone.
Smoke billowed from the blasted entrance of our carriage house. The antique wrought-iron gates hung twisted on their hinges, black scorch marks staining the pristine white snow. Two armored private security sedans, unmarked and bearing out-of-state plates, were idling haphazardly in the driveway, their engines humming.
"Movement on the balcony!" Miller shouted, racking the slide of his tactical sidearm. "Second floor, northeast corner!"
I didn't wait for Miller or his team. I threw the Suburban into park, grabbed the heavy breaching shotgun mounted under the center console, and kicked my door open into the freezing gale.
A man dressed in black winter tactical gear appeared on the second-story terrace, raising an assault rifle toward our vehicle. Before he could seat the stock against his shoulder, Miller’s rifle cracked twice from behind the Suburban’s open door. The mercenary jerked violently, tumbled over the stone balustrade, and landed heavily in the snowdrift five feet from where I stood.
I vaulted the stone steps of the front portico.
The heavy mahogany double doors—the ones Emily had chosen because they felt warm and welcoming—were shattered inward, splintered by the breaching charge. Inside, the grand foyer was choked with lingering chemical smoke and the acrid stench of cordite. Two men lay face-down on the marble floor near the foot of the stairs, incapacitated by the halon gas system that had starved the lower level of oxygen before dissipating through the broken windows.
From the top of the stairs came the rhythmic, unmistakable sound of a heavy sledge striking reinforced steel.
*CLANG. CLANG.*
"Step back, Mr. Harrington!" Miller warned, flanking my left with two tactical officers moving in textbook stack formation.
"Clear the stairs!" I ordered, my voice deadly quiet.
We surged up the curved mahogany staircase, our boots crushing broken glass and fallen plaster. On the third-floor landing, outside the reinforced entrance to the private master library, a fourth operative was kneeling before the heavy steel door, setting an industrial-grade cutting torch against the locking mechanism.
He heard us half a second too late.
He spun, reaching for a sidearm strapped to his thigh, but I closed the distance before he could clear the holster. I drove the butt of the heavy shotgun straight into his tactical helmet. The impact cracked the polycarbonate visor, sending him sprawling backward into the wainscoting. Miller pinned him instantly, driving a combat knee into the man's spine and wrenching his arms behind his back in a zip-tie cuff.
The hallway fell dead silent, save for the hiss of the abandoned torch lying on the runner rug.
I dropped the shotgun, stepped over the discarded tools, and raised my hand to the biometric panel beside the scorched door. The sensor glowed red, damaged by the torch, but the manual keypad remained intact.
With trembling fingers, I tapped in our private code: our baby's birthdate.
A heavy hydraulic click resonated through the frame. The reinforced steel door swung inward.
There, standing in the center of the book-lined sanctuary, was Emily.
She wore a cashmere sweater smeared with soot. In her right hand, held with practiced, unwavering discipline, was my custom .45 pistol, pointed directly at the doorway. In her left arm, pressed tightly against her chest, was our six-month-old son, Leo. The baby was awake, wide-eyed, sucking on his thumb beneath large protective earmuffs, completely unaware of the violence that had just raged outside his door.
When Emily’s eyes met mine, the lethal intensity in her gaze dissolved in an instant. The gun lowered.
"Brian," she whispered, her voice finally breaking.
I crossed the room in two strides, wrapping my arms around both of them, burying my face in the warmth of her neck and Leo’s soft hair. I held them so tightly I could feel the rapid, frantic beat of her heart against mine.
"I’m here," I choked out, tears finally breaking free and running down my face. "I'm here. It's over."
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Emily leaned her forehead against my cheek, trembling, but then she looked down at the radio transceiver clutched on the desk behind her.
"It's not over, Brian," she murmured, her voice dropping into a chilling register. "The man who led this squad... his radio received a final transmission just three minutes ago. Richard didn't plan this alone. There's someone else."
