Chapter 4 - The Battle for the East Wing
"Shoot him!" Victoria shrieked, pointing her silver flashlight directly at my face, blinding me with the harsh beam. "Shoot him now!"
The guard on the right raised his rifle.
Before he could squeeze the trigger, I dropped flat onto the marble floor.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
A volley of silenced rounds tore through the air where my chest had been a fraction of a second earlier, shattering a priceless eighteenth-century oil painting behind me into ribbons of canvas and gilded wood.
From the floor, I fired a four-round burst.
The bullets struck the right guard’s tactical vest, the kinetic impact slamming him backward against the wall. He stumbled, gasping for air as his rifle slipped from his hands.
"Leo! RUN!" I screamed, rolling behind a heavy oak display case as the second guard returned fire, wood splinters flying like shrapnel over my head.
Leo didn't hesitate this time. Hearing his father’s voice, hearing the absolute command in it, he scrambled out from behind the marble pedestal and sprinted toward the hidden bookcase leading to Sarah’s sanctuary.
"Get the boy!" Vance yelled, drawing his pistol, firing wildly into the darkness toward my position.
Victoria lunged toward Leo, reaching out with her long, manicured hand to grab the hood of his sweatshirt. "Come here, you little brat!"
Leo turned, grabbed a heavy bronze floor vase resting near the wall, and shoved it with all his small might.
The heavy vase fell sideways, striking Victoria square across her shins.
She let out a piercing shriek of agony, her knees buckling as she crashed hard onto the marble floor, dropping the syringe. The glass vial shattered against the stone, its deadly contents spilling harmlessly into the grout.
"You little monster!" she screamed, clutching her leg.
Leo hit the latch on the bookcase. The heavy mahogany panel swung open, and my son darted inside, the door clicking shut behind him, locking automatically from the inside.
He was safe inside the reinforced vault room.
A wild, feral laugh escaped my throat. My son was safe. The fear that had paralyzed me for hours vanished, replaced by an absolute, cold desire for retribution.
I popped out from behind the display case, firing two precise shots into the arm of the second guard, neutralizing his weapon. The man dropped his rifle, clutching his bleeding shoulder, retreating into the dark corridors of the west wing.
Only Vance and Victoria remained in the light of the tactical lanterns.
Vance’s pistol clicked empty. He cursed, throwing the useless weapon onto the floor, pulling a tactical combat knife from his belt.
"James, wait!" Vance held up a hand, stepping back, his face slick with cold sweat as he saw the murderous calm in my eyes as I walked slowly toward him, my weapon held low. "Listen to me! We can make a deal! It was all Victoria! She planned the pillow! She brought the chemicals! I was just managing the financial restructuring!"
"Julian," I said softly, stopping six feet from him. "You sat at my dinner table. You drank my wine. You toasted to my late wife’s memory. And then you sent a woman to torture my son."
"James, please—"
I dropped my firearm onto the floor.
Vance blinked in shock.
"I don't need a gun for you, Julian," I said, unbuttoning my suit jacket, letting it fall to the marble floor, rolling up the sleeves of my crisp white shirt. "I want to feel every bone break."
Vance’s eyes flared with desperate, cornered rage. He lunged forward with the combat knife, driving the steel blade toward my throat in a lethal arc.
I stepped inside the arc of his arm, grabbing his wrist with my left hand, twisting it violently outward.
CRACK!
Vance screamed as his wrist snapped. The knife fell from his limp fingers, clattering onto the marble.
Before he could recover, I drove my right fist square into his jaw. The force of the blow lifted him off his feet. He crashed back against the wall, blood spurting from his mouth, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he slid down the stone paneling into a motionless heap on the floor.
The gallery went dead quiet, save for the ragged sound of my own breathing.
I turned slowly around.
Victoria was crawling across the floor toward the doorway, clutching her bruised leg, weeping hysterical, terrified tears.
"James... please..." she sobbed, looking back over her shoulder as my shadow fell over her. "I'm sorry... I was desperate... Vance threatened me! He said he would ruin me if I didn't help him!"
I stood over her, looking down at the woman who had shared my bed, the woman who had smiled in my face while secretly tormenting my child every single night.
"You lied about his tears," I said, my voice empty of all emotion. "You called him dramatic."
"James, please! I love you! I can change! We can get help!" she begged, reaching up to grab the hem of my trousers.
I stepped back, letting her hand fall uselessly onto the cold stone.
"You are going to spend the rest of your life in a state penitentiary, Victoria," I said coldly. "And every single night, when you lie down on your thin, hard prison pillow, I hope you think of the six-year-old boy you tried to break."
Above us, the high-pitched wail of police sirens cut through the night air outside the mansion.
Clara had made it. The lockdown grid was being manually overridden from the exterior gates.
Heavy footsteps pounded through the foyer as armed SWAT officers in tactical gear burst into the portrait gallery, their high-powered weapon lights cutting through the darkness, illuminating the scene.
"DON'T MOVE! STATE POLICE!" officers roared, sweeping the room.
I stood in the center of the gallery, raising my hands calmly, pointing toward Vance’s unconscious body and Victoria weeping on the floor.
"The perpetrators are neutralized," I said clearly to the lead officer. "My son is safe inside the vault room."
I walked past the officers, ignoring their commands to halt, stepping up to the mahogany bookcase leading to Sarah’s sanctuary.
I knocked soft, three rhythmic taps—the code Sarah had taught him.
"Leo?" I whispered through the thick wood. "It's Daddy. It's safe now."
A second later, the heavy latch clicked. The bookcase swung open.
Leo stood in the doorway, clutching his yellow blanket in one hand and his small Triceratops in the other. He looked up at me through wide, hopeful eyes.
I dropped to my knees, opening my arms wide.
My son didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, throwing his small arms around my neck, burying his face in my shoulder, sobbing tears of relief.
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I pulled him close, holding him so tight I could feel his fast, frantic heart beating against my own. I buried my face in his hair, weeping openly, letting the tears wash away the dark poison of the past six months.
"I've got you, Leo," I sobbed into his hair, holding him against my chest as the police medical team stepped into the hallway. "Daddy's got you. You're safe. You're home."
