Chapter 7
"Will you survive running through a crossfire if I attempt to move you now?" Malcolm asked bluntly, his imposing frame blocking the exit.
"I can't just stay here and listen to them come for you!" Freya pleaded, stepping closer to him, her hands trembling.
Malcolm stared at the beautiful woman before him. She possessed a profound, quiet courage that completely eclipsed the shallow, venomous nature of the elites he normally dealt with. She had thrown dirt in the face of a matriarch; she was willing to stand in a gunfight rather than hide behind a locked door.
"Are you willing to follow my exact orders to keep yourself alive?" Malcolm asked, his cold eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire.
"Yes," Freya promised without hesitation.
"Shall we go show them exactly what it costs to threaten my home?" Malcolm asked.
He didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed her hand, his warm, tattooed fingers wrapping securely around her delicate wrist, and pulled her out of the study into the chaotic, flashing hallway.
The bright, luminous colors of the mansion were gone, replaced by the chaotic strobe of emergency lights and the deafening, rhythmic staccato of heavy gunfire echoing from the lower floors. The smell of cordite and burning wood filled the air, acrid and suffocating.
Malcolm moved with absolute, predatory grace. He kept Freya tucked safely behind his powerful shoulders, his weapon raised, his observant eyes sweeping every corner and gilded mirror for threats. They navigated the marble corridors, the sound of combat growing louder with every step.
As they reached the heavy oak doors separating the main house from the private wing, a massive explosion rocked the foundation of the estate.
The shockwave threw them both against the carved ivory wall panels. Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling. The heavy oak doors were blown entirely off their hinges in a blinding flash of orange fire.
"Are you injured?" Malcolm shouted over the ringing in their ears, pulling Freya back to her feet.
"I'm okay!" Freya gasped, coughing through the thick smoke.
Through the ruined doorway, the bright tactical lights of three heavily armed mercenaries pierced the darkness. They were moving aggressively down the corridor, aiming their assault rifles directly at the private residential wing.
"Did you forget whose house you entered?" Malcolm asked the empty air.
He stepped out from cover, pulling Freya tightly against his side. The roar of his weapon was deafening in the enclosed space. The first mercenary collapsed backward, his chest armor shattered by the armor-piercing rounds. The second man spun wildly, his weapon firing blindly into the cascading crystal chandeliers before he hit the marble floor.
The third assassin panicked, scrambling toward the heavy walnut doors to escape the absolute slaughter.
"Are you running so soon?" Malcolm asked, rising to his full height.
He aimed and fired a single, decisive shot. The third man crumpled in the doorway, his body wedging the heavy doors open.
The hallway fell into a terrifying, ringing silence. The warm golden light flickered as a damaged chandelier swayed precariously above. The smell of cordite filled the air.
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Malcolm did not lower his weapon. He kept his extremely short stubble and sharply defined jawline locked in a mask of lethal focus, his eyes scanning the corridor outside for further threats.
"Is everyone unharmed?" Malcolm asked quietly, pulling Freya closer against him.
