Chapter 6
Muzzle flashes strobed through the shattered French doors, illuminating the grand banquet hall in violent, stuttering flashes of white and orange.
The deafening roar of automatic gunfire chewed through the antique mahogany paneling, shredding tapestries, shattering crystal goblets, and turning the head table into splintered kindling. Screams of terror erupted from the seventy guests as they scrambled beneath the heavy banquet tables, pressing their faces into the carpet to escape the hail of lead.
"Kill the perimeter lights! Return fire!" Cassian’s voice roared through the thunder.
The Ravenswick security team reacted with ruthless, drilled precision. Taking cover behind the reinforced stone pillars flanking the hall, they brought up submachine guns and carbines, returning disciplined bursts toward the terrace. Brass casings rained onto the parquet floor like heavy metal hail.
Hector had not dropped to the floor.
The moment the first pane of glass blew inward, Hector hauled Julian off the carpet by his collar, using his cousin’s body as a temporary shield as he backed swiftly toward the reinforced alcove of the service entrance. Two high-caliber rounds slammed into the thick oak door frame inches from Hector’s ear, showering his hair with wood dust.
Hector dropped Julian hard onto the stone floor of the service corridor. "Marcus! Watch him! Put a bullet in his forehead if he breathes loud!"
"Understood, Boss!" Marcus shouted over the din, planting his combat boot squarely onto Julian’s broken shoulder.
Hector didn't care about the attackers in the dining hall. Cassian had thirty hardened veterans in that room; they would hold the ground or die trying. Hector had only one priority: the second-floor vault.
Maiselle.
He sprinted up the service stairs, his .45 drawn, taking the steps three at a time. The estate’s emergency red lights kicked on, bathing the narrow stairwell in a blood-colored, hellish luminescence.
Gunfire echoed not just from below, but from the upper gallery.
They breached the roof, Hector realized with sickening clarity. Carmine didn't just bring vans to the gate. They used the service scaffolding on the east terrace.
Hector reached the landing of the second floor just as two men in tactical gear rounded the corridor from the master wing. They were dressed in black balaclavas, wielding suppressed submachine guns, moving directly toward the hidden vault door.
Hector didn't shout a warning. He didn't hesitate.
Raising his pistol with both hands, Hector squeezed the trigger three times in rapid, rhythmic succession.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The heavy .45 hollow-point rounds slammed into the lead gunman’s chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him against the wall before he could bring his muzzle to bear. The second man spun, his weapon tracking toward Hector, but Hector closed the distance like a charging bull, slapping the barrel aside with his left forearm.
The suppressed weapon discharged uselessly into the ceiling, raining plaster dust down on them.
Hector drove the steel butt of his pistol directly into the man’s throat, crushing the windpipe. The mercenary gasped, collapsing to his knees. Hector stepped past him, firing a single executioner's shot into the back of his tactical vest to ensure he stayed down.
Hector stood in the smoke-filled hallway, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with lethal intent.
The hidden bookshelf concealing the vault door had been partially wrenched open with a crowbar. On the floor in front of it lay Daniel, the loyal guard Hector had stationed outside, dead in a pool of dark blood, a bullet hole through his temple.
"Maisie!" Hector shouted, his voice cracking with raw, unadulterated terror.
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He lunged toward the steel vault door. The biometric scanner had been smashed with a hammer, wires sparking furiously against the metal plate. The mechanical lock was still holding, but someone had attached a magnetic breaching charge to the heavy hinges.
The digital timer on the charge was blinking red: 00:08... 00:07... 00:06...
