Chapter 9
The grand hallway, usually a masterpiece of ivory-paneled walls and gilded mirrors, was a war zone. The bright, luminous colors were obscured by thick, acrid smoke and the frantic, staccato flashes of muzzle fire. The Sloane strike team had taken cover behind overturned marble columns, pinning Cyrus’s men down near the entrance to the subterranean stairwell.
Cyrus did not hesitate. Moving with the lethal, fluid grace of a seasoned predator, he slid behind a heavy, carved walnut credenza. His cold, perceptive eyes instantly calculated the angles, the numbers, and the trajectories.
"Are you reloading?" Cyrus asked the operative crouching next to him.
"Yes, Boss!" the man shouted over the deafening noise, slapping a fresh magazine into his rifle.
"Will you lay down suppressing fire on the left flank on my mark?" Cyrus asked, his deep voice remarkably steady, an anchor in the storm of chaos.
"Ready, sir!"
"Now," Cyrus commanded.
As his operative unleashed a barrage of bullets, forcing the Sloane mercenaries to duck behind their marble cover, Cyrus stepped out from the shadows. His powerful shoulders squared, his extremely short stubble catching the flashes of light. He raised his customized weapon, aiming with terrifying, mechanical precision.
He fired three distinct, measured bursts.
Two of the Sloane mercenaries collapsed instantly, their tactical armor failing against the armor-piercing rounds. The third man, realizing the suppressing fire had been a distraction, swung his rifle toward Cyrus.
"Did you think you could walk into my home and leave breathing?" Cyrus asked the empty air.
He pulled the trigger once more. The mercenary dropped, his weapon clattering loudly against the polished marble floor.
The remaining invaders, seeing their vanguard decimated by a single man in a dress shirt, broke their formation. Panic set in.
"They are falling back, Boss!" the operative yelled, rising from cover.
"Will you allow them to retreat to the extraction point?" Cyrus asked, his eyes darkening with absolute, uncompromising wrath. "Or will you ensure they never report back to Victor Sloane?"
"No survivors, sir!" the operatives shouted in unison, pushing forward to eliminate the retreating strike team.
Cyrus lowered his weapon, the barrel smoking in the bright, hazy air. He did not join the pursuit. His primary objective was secured. He turned his broad, masculine frame and walked swiftly toward the reinforced doors of the subterranean stairwell.
He descended the concrete steps rapidly, his polished leather shoes echoing in the enclosed space. He reached the heavy steel door of the secure wing and pounded his fist against it twice.
"Marcus. Open the door," Cyrus ordered through the comms.
The heavy locking mechanisms engaged, and the thick steel door swung open.
Cyrus stepped into the warm, elegant light of the bunker. The sudden quiet was jarring. Marcus stood down its weapon, nodding respectfully.
Mina leaped up from the leather sofa. Her sophisticated black maid dress was rumpled, her softly heart-shaped face pale with terror. She had heard the muffled explosions and the distant gunfire.
"Mr. Langford!" Mina gasped, her expressive brows drawn together in overwhelming relief. She closed the distance between them, instinctively reaching out before stopping herself. "Are you hurt?"
"Do I appear injured to you?" Cyrus asked, a faint, genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth.
He looked down at his tailored trousers and rolled-up sleeves. He was covered in plaster dust and the smell of gunpowder, but he was entirely unharmed.
"Is Finn safe?" Cyrus asked, his gaze shifting to the sofa.
Finn was still fast asleep, completely oblivious to the war that had just raged above his head. Atlas sat beside the boy, his graying muzzle resting on his paws, his tail thumping softly as Cyrus entered.
"He slept through the worst of it," Mina whispered, tears of relief shining in her beautiful eyes. "I was so frightened they had breached the house."
"Would I ever let them reach you?" Cyrus asked, taking a slow step toward her.
He reached out, his tattooed hand gently cupping her delicate cheekbone. The touch was electric, a stark contrast to the violence he had just committed.
Before Mina could answer, Marcus’s radio crackled loudly, shattering the intimate moment.
"Boss," a frantic capo shouted over the channel. "The main assault was a diversion! We just got word from the city!"
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"What is the situation?" Cyrus demanded, his hand dropping from Mina’s face.
"Victor Sloane didn't just attack the estate, sir. He sent a secondary team to the hospital. They took Dr. Evans."
