Chapter 6
In the pitch black of the library, the only illumination came from the pale moonlight filtering through the tall, leaded-glass windows overlooking the rear courtyard.
From the distant ballroom, the muffled screams of two hundred trapped guests began to rise, a chaotic wave of panic echoing down the long marble halls.
"Nobody move," Truett commanded. His voice was an anchor of absolute stability in the darkness.
"They cut the main grid," Garran sobbed from the floor, his hands clawing at the carpet. "They’re going to butcher us all. Oh God, they’re going to kill us in the dark!"
"Shut up," Truett snapped.
He moved silently to the tall window, peering through the heavy velvet drapes down into the rain-slicked courtyard.
Below, two black utility vans had breached the ornamental iron gates and were parked across the gravel drive. Four men dressed in dark tactical gear were moving in disciplined fire-team formations toward the side entrances of the mansion. Suppressed carbines were raised to their shoulders, their infrared laser sights cutting invisible paths through the falling rain.
Truett raised his satellite phone to his ear.
"Keller," Truett whispered.
"I see them, Mr. Hawthorne," Keller’s voice came back, tight, calm, and perfectly steady. "Two teams of four. Professional entry. They haven't spotted the Maybach yet—I pulled into the carriage house behind the brick wall. Elsbeth is secure. Ballistic blankets deployed."
"Keep her down," Truett said. "Do not engage unless they approach the carriage house doors. I am clearing the east wing from the inside."
"Understood, sir. Watch the service stairwell. They'll use the kitchen entrance to bypass the ballroom."
Truett ended the call and slipped the phone back into his breast pocket. He turned back to the dark library. His eyes had already adjusted to the gloom. Isolde was huddled beside Julian’s chair, her white gown glowing like a funeral shroud in the moonlight. Julian’s head had slumped forward onto his chest; his breathing had ceased entirely.
"Julian?" Isolde whispered into the dark, her voice trembling with childish denial. "Julian, wake up. Please. The lights went out."
"He’s gone, Isolde," Truett said flatly.
Isolde let out a dry, broken gasp, burying her face into the dead man’s blood-soaked lapel.
Truett stepped over to the fallen caterer near the credenza. He knelt down, his fingers searching the corpse’s tactical belt with practiced efficiency. He retrieved two spare 9mm magazines, a tactical flashlight with an infrared filter, and a lightweight, suppressed submachine gun.
He stood up, racking the bolt of the submachine gun with a sharp, oily click.
"Arthur," Truett said.
The old patriarch was leaning against the bookshelves, shaking so hard his teeth clicked together. "Truett... what are we going to do? What can we do against these people?"
"You are going to sit in that corner and keep your mouths shut," Truett said. "If you make a sound, the men coming up those stairs will put a bullet through your forehead before you can tell them your net worth."
He looked down at Garran, who was still groveling on the floor.
"Get up, Garran."
"I can't..." Garran wheezed, clutching his bruised chest. "I can't breathe..."
Truett reached down with his left hand, grabbed Garran by his silk lapels, and hoisted the forty-year-old man to his feet with terrifying strength. He shoved him against the mahogany desk until Garran was forced to look down at his dead brother’s face.
"Look at him," Truett hissed into Garran’s ear. "That is the price of your greed. Now you are going to walk in front of me toward the grand foyer. If a bullet comes down that hallway, it hits you first."
"No! Please, Truett, don't use me as a shield!" Garran pleaded, tears streaming through the sweat on his cheeks.
"You had no problem using a three-year-old child as yours," Truett said, his voice dropping into pure ice. "Move."
May you like
Truett shoved Garran toward the cracked double doors.
They stepped into the darkened corridor. At the far end of the gallery, near the service stairs leading down to the kitchens, the soft, rhythmic scuff of tactical boots against hardwood signaled the arrival of the first assault team.
