Chapter 9
The heavy wooden door cracked under a second vicious kick, the oak chair sliding back with a harsh screech against the floorboards. Wood splintered inward, and the door slammed open, rebounding off the wall.
Two men stepped into the dark bedroom. They wore black tactical gear and night-vision goggles, their suppressed submachine guns sweeping the empty room. Lightning flashed, casting long, nightmarish shadows across the floor.
"Clear the bed," the first man growled, stepping cautiously over the debris. "Find the kid and the maid."
Vera stood flattened against the wall beside the doorway, concealed by the heavy velvet drapes, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She gripped the heavy brass lamp with both hands, her palms sweating. If they reached the closet, Jude was dead. She couldn't let them search the room. She had to draw them out.
As the second man stepped fully past her, his back turned, Vera swung the brass lamp with every ounce of terrifying, desperate strength she possessed.
The heavy metal connected with the back of his helmet with a sickening crack. The man grunted, his knees buckling instantly, and he collapsed onto the rug like a puppet with cut strings. His submachine gun clattered loudly against the floor.
The first man whipped around, bringing his weapon up, but Vera didn't hesitate. She threw the brass lamp directly at his face and lunged for the dropped gun on the floor.
The man deflected the lamp with his forearm, swearing loudly. "You stupid bitch!" he snarled, aiming his weapon at her.
Before he could pull the trigger, the glass of the massive floor-to-ceiling window behind him shattered inward in a catastrophic explosion of rain, wind, and glass. A figure in a dark overcoat swung into the room, propelled by a grappling line attached to the roof.
It was Callan.
He didn't waste a microsecond. Mid-swing, he raised a heavy handgun and fired twice. The unsuppressed shots were deafening in the confined space. The assassin jerked violently as two bullets found his chest, dropping instantly to the floor.
Callan detached himself from the rope, landing heavily on the glass-strewn floor. He was soaked to the bone, breathing heavily, his eyes blazing with a feral, terrifying light. He scanned the room, his gun raised, until his eyes locked onto Vera, who was kneeling on the floor, clutching the dropped submachine gun.
"Vera," Callan exhaled, lowering his weapon. He crossed the room in two massive strides, dropping to his knees and hauling her against his chest. He crushed her to him, his wet overcoat soaking her clothes, his hand tangled in her hair. "Are you hurt? Did they touch you?"
"No," Vera sobbed, burying her face into his neck, overwhelmed by the scent of rain and gunpowder. "No, I'm okay. Jude is in the closet. He's safe."
Callan pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes squeezed shut in absolute relief. "Thank God."
"The sit-down?" she gasped, looking at him wildly. "How are you here?"
"It was a distraction, just like you said," Callan snarled, standing up and pulling her to her feet. "Elias wasn't there. It was an ambush. We fought our way out, but I realized too late that it was a decoy. Simone wanted you dead while I was pinned down."
Callan turned toward the closet. "Jude! It's Papa. Come out, buddy."
The closet door creaked open, and Jude peered out, his eyes wide. Seeing Callan, he ran across the room and threw himself into his father's arms.
"We need to move," Callan said, holding Jude tightly while grabbing Vera's hand. "The house is breached. We’re going to the safe house."
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Before they could reach the door, a slow, mocking clap echoed from the darkened hallway.
"Well, isn't this a touching family reunion?" Simone Drake purred, stepping into the doorway. She was flanked by three heavily armed men. In her hand, she held a silver pistol, aimed directly at Vera's chest.
