Chapter 13 - The Breach at the Threshold
Arthur raised his hand, signaling absolute silence. He pressed the satellite phone closer to his ear, whispering urgently to the federal agent on the line.
“They’re inside,” Arthur breathed into the device. “Front foyer window just went down. They’re moving fast.”
“Understood, Arthur. Our tactical team is three minutes out. Hold the door,” Agent Vance’s voice crackled through the encrypted speaker.
Margaret moved with astonishing speed and agility for her age. She grabbed a heavy mahogany chair, sliding it silently beneath the brass doorknob of the study, wedging it firmly into place. She gestured to Clara, urging the teenager toward the open panel of the grandfather clock.
“Inside, Clara. Now,” Margaret whispered urgently.
Clara hesitated for a fraction of a second, looking at her grandmother and her father with heartbreaking bravery, before slipping backward into the dark, secure compartment. Margaret pulled the heavy wooden clock face closed until it clicked softly into place, securing her granddaughter away from the imminent danger.
Heavy, tactical boots echoed loudly down the hardwood hallway outside the study. The footsteps were disciplined, rhythmic, and terrifyingly close. Someone grabbed the brass handle of the study door and jiggled it aggressively.
“It’s locked!” a gruff, muffled voice called out from the hallway.
“Kick it,” a second, colder voice commanded.
Arthur braced his shoulder against the heavy oak door, gripping a solid brass paperweight in his right hand. Margaret stood right beside him, holding a heavy iron fireplace poker she had retrieved from the hearth. They stood side-by-side, presenting a united front against the encroaching shadow of their family’s dark past.
With a deafening crash, a heavy boot slammed directly into the center of the study door. The solid wood splintered around the lock, and the door flew inward, knocking the wedged mahogany chair violently across the room.
Through the cloud of dust and splintered wood stepped two men dressed entirely in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by dark balaclavas, holding suppressed firearms raised and ready.
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Behind them, stepping leisurely into the ruined doorway with a cold, triumphant smirk, was a frail elderly man with piercing gray eyes and a tailored suit—Richard.
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