Chapter 4 - Fire in the East Wing
The heavy oak doors shuddered under the impact of a breaching charge. Splintered wood and white plaster dust rained down from the doorframe.
"They're using a localized linear cutter," Viktor warned, reloading his submachine gun with a sharp, mechanical click. "Ten seconds and the deadbolt blows."
"Fall back to the private panic room behind the fireplace," Roman ordered, his voice steady as iron. He grabbed my arm, yanking me out of the line of fire as a hail of lead-tipped rounds punched straight through the upper panels of the double doors.
We scrambled behind the massive stone hearth. Roman reached up, pressing a concealed brick behind a wrought-iron candelabra. With a low, grinding groan, a section of the stone wall swung inward, revealing a dark, concrete-lined emergency passage leading down to the underground vehicle bays.
"Get in," Roman pushed me toward the dark opening.
"I'm not leaving," I said, planting my feet on the stone floor, raising the Glock with both hands, my arms shaking violently. "Dante Vance framed my brother. He destroyed my family. I am not running away while he thinks he can walk into this house and take whatever he wants."
Roman looked at me, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his face before it hardened into fierce, dangerous admiration.
"Stubborn to the bone," Roman muttered. He didn't argue. He simply stepped back, positioning himself beside me with his weapon raised. "All right, Norah. When the door blows, you take the left flank. I'll take the right. Shoot anything wearing black tactical gear."
BOOM.
The entire library door exploded inward in a fireball of smoke, shrapnel, and shattered oak.
Through the billows of white smoke, masked operatives poured into the room, their assault rifles sweeping the space.
"Now!" Roman roared.
I pulled the trigger. The deafening roar of the Glock nearly burst my eardrums, the violent recoil nearly knocking me off balance. But the training my grandfather had drilled into me during our hunting trips upstate years ago took over instinctively. The bullet struck the lead operative's ceramic chest plate, knocking him backward into his teammate just as Roman’s precise, clinical shots neutralized the rest of the vanguard.
"Clear!" Viktor shouted from the doorway.
We stepped over the fallen operatives, moving out into the smoke-filled corridor of the west wing. The air tasted of copper, cordite, and burning carpet.
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"Dante is heading for the subterranean garage," Viktor said, tapping his tactical tablet. "He’s trying to reach the armored transport to escape before our perimeter units lock down the compound."
"Not on my watch," Roman said coldly. He turned to me, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder. "Norah. Stay behind Viktor. We're going to end this tonight."
