Chapter 9
The heavy plate glass of the foyer window exploded inward in a blizzard of razor-sharp shards.
Bartholomew shrieked, throwing himself onto the marble floor. Elfrida scrambled backward on her hands and knees, covering her head as fragments of glass rained across the empty hall.
Lysander did not flinch. With the instantaneous reflexes of a seasoned combat veteran, he pulled a customized black semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, his eyes scanning the darkness outside through the shattered frame.
A second shot cracked through the night, chipping the marble pillar inches from his head.
"Viktor!" Lysander barked into his lapel radio.
"Three vehicles breaching the southern treeline, Mr. Farrow!" Viktor’s heavy voice crackled back over the static. "Heavy tactical gear, suppressed weapons! It’s not private security—it’s Sterling’s vanguard! They’re here for the girl!"
Lysander’s jaw clenched. "Effie is in the secure safehouse five miles north. Hold the driveway. I’m moving to the rear perimeter."
Outside, the darkness erupted into violence. The staccato bark of assault rifle fire echoed across the gardens, answered by the heavy, rhythmic thud of Viktor’s twelve-gauge shotgun from the lower terrace. Headlights roared through the broken iron gates as three armored black SUVs tore across the manicured lawn, shredding the rose beds.
Elfrida was sobbing hysterically, pressed against the base of the staircase. "Dominic... Dominic promised he wouldn't use force! He said he only wanted the paperwork!"
Lysander looked down at her with pure disgust. "You invited wolves into your house, Elfrida, and now you’re surprised they came to eat."
He moved to the front entrance, using the thick limestone portico for cover. Through the smoke and muzzle flashes, he saw four masked gunmen advancing in tactical formation across the gravel. They were professional, moving with calculated efficiency, laying down suppressive fire toward the moving trucks.
Lysander raised his pistol.
With three smooth, rhythmic pulls of the trigger, the lead gunman dropped to the gravel, clutching his shattered shoulder. The second shooter ducked behind the marble fountain as Lysander’s bullets sparked against the stone carving.
From the tree line, Viktor and three Farrow security men opened up an enfilading fire, catching the remaining mercenaries in a deadly crossfire. Shouts in Russian and English cut through the darkness, followed by the screech of tires as the third SUV attempted to execute a hasty retreat back down the serpentine drive.
"Cover the gate!" Viktor shouted, sprinting across the lawn with his shotgun raised, his tactical team closing the net with lethal precision.
Within four minutes, the firefight was over.
Two mercenaries lay motionless on the gravel; three others were forced to their knees, their hands zip-tied behind their backs by Lysander’s men. The burning wreckage of one SUV illuminated the grand estate in flickering orange firelight.
Lysander stepped down the blood-spattered front stairs, his gun lowered but still drawn. He stopped in front of the mercenary leader who was pinned against the hood of the second SUV, blood streaming from a wound in his scalp.
Lysander grabbed the man by the tactical vest, lifting him off his feet with one arm.
"Who authorized the breach?" Lysander asked, his voice deathly calm over the crackle of the burning vehicle.
The mercenary spat blood onto the gravel, coughing through cracked ribs. "Sterling... sent us. But not... not to take the girl."
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Lysander’s eyes narrowed. "Speak."
"The girl was a decoy," the man gasped, his eyes wild with pain. "Sterling didn't care about the safehouse. While your team moved north... his primary extraction unit hit the maritime vault in Boston. Clara’s original trust ledger... it’s already on a cargo plane to London."
