Chapter 5 - Fire and Shrapnel
The concrete stairs felt like a vertical marathon as I climbed back up toward the ground floor, my boots silent against the rough stone. The air grew warmer with every step, carrying the faint, acrid scent of ozone and burning plastic.
When I reached the concealed panel behind the grand fireplace, I pressed my ear against the wood.
Muffled shouts echoed from the drawing room just beyond the library.
"...he’s not in the study! Check the east wing!"
"The timer’s ticking, damn it! We have four minutes before the whole property goes red!"
I slowly depressed the manual release lever on the hidden panel. The heavy wood swung open a mere two inches, creating a narrow sliver of light that looked out into the dimly lit corridor of the estate.
Peering through the gap, I saw one of the tactical operatives standing near the grand staircase, his back to me as he barked orders into his shoulder mic. The other three were scouring the library, tossing furniture and smashing antique displays in a frantic search for Vincent.
I slipped through the opening, hugging the dark wood paneling of the hallway like a ghost. My hands were steady, my grip on the Beretta locked tight. Growing up on a rough farm, I had spent hours target-shooting with rusted hunting rifles; I knew how to control my breathing, how to steady my nerves, and how to aim for center mass.
The operative near the stairs began turning around, his tactical visor catching the dim light.
I didn't hesitate.
I stepped out of the shadows, raised the Beretta, and squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The deafening roar of the gunshot shattered the silence of the mansion. The bullet caught the operative squarely in the shoulder armor, spinning him off balance and crashing him hard against the oak banister. He dropped his submachine gun, howling in pain as he clutched his arm.
"Contact! East hallway!" he screamed into his comms.
From the library, the other three operatives exploded into the corridor, their weapons raised, scanning the shadows for targets.
I didn't wait for them to find me. I ducked behind a massive marble pillar as a volley of suppressed gunfire chewed through the air, sending jagged splinters of wood and chunks of marble exploding around my head. The concussive blasts were deafening, the air filling with acrid white smoke.
"Flush her out!" a voice shouted.
Footsteps thundered across the marble floor, closing in on my position from both sides. I was caught in a crossfire, trapped against a structural pillar with nowhere to run.
Suddenly, from the shadows of the formal dining room, a dark, heavy figure lunged forward.
It was Vincent.
He was battered, bleeding from a deep gash across his forehead, and his tailored suit was torn to shreds. But in his hands, he wielded a heavy wrought-iron fireplace poker like a medieval war club.
Before the nearest operative could pivot his rifle toward me, Vincent swung the iron bar with brutal, bone-crushing force, striking the operative squarely across the helmet. The man collapsed like a discarded puppet, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Vincent didn't pause. He grabbed the fallen operative’s submachine gun, racked the bolt with practiced familiarity, and laid down a deafening suppressing fire down the hallway, forcing the remaining two operatives to dive behind the massive mahogany dining table for cover.
"Elena! Run!" Vincent yelled, his voice rough and raw, proving that his vocal cords worked just fine when absolute terror demanded it.
I sprinted across the open floor, sliding behind the marble pillar where he stood. He grabbed my arm, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of furious rage and profound, soul-deep relief.
"You were supposed to stay in the panic room!" he shouted over the sound of incoming enemy fire.
"And let them blow you up?!" I fired back, handing him an extra magazine from my pocket. "Not a chance in hell, Moretti!"
A strange, fleeting smile touched the corner of Vincent’s bruised mouth. He clicked the magazine into the submachine gun, checked the chamber, and looked down the corridor where the two remaining operatives were pinning us down.
"The self-destruct timer," Vincent said rapidly, pointing toward the grand staircase. "Two minutes. The main control panel in the master suite is the only thing that can abort it. If we don't reach it, the C4 charges on the foundation detonate."
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"Then let's go climb some stairs," I said, cocking the Beretta.
Together, Chicago's most feared Mafia boss and his fifty-dollar bride charged out from behind the pillar, unleashing a wall of lead that tore through the hallway, turning the tables on the syndicate assassins who had dared to invade our home.
