Chapter 11
Heavy footsteps crunched on the shattered glass in the foyer below. The sound was deliberate, slow, and terrifyingly calm—the unmistakable tread of professionals who were entirely accustomed to operating without interference or consequence.
Eleanor backed away from the stairwell, retreating down the carpeted hallway toward the master bedroom. Her breathing was shallow, her heart pounding a frantic drumbeat in her ears. She glanced back once and saw Julian and Leo scrambling upward into the darkened attic crawlspace, the small wooden ladder retracting smoothly into the ceiling just as a floorboard downstairs creaked in warning.
She ducked into the master bedroom, closing the heavy wooden door halfway. She needed to draw them away from the hallway, away from the ceiling hatch where the boys were hidden.
“We know you’re upstairs, kid,” a deep, gravelly voice called out from the foyer, echoing up the stairwell with chilling casualness. “Just hand over the hardware. Nobody has to get hurt tonight. It’s just business.”
Eleanor’s hands shook as she grabbed a heavy ceramic lamp from the bedside table, lifting it with both arms. Her beige suit jacket lay abandoned downstairs, but the white blouse she wore was pristine, a stark canvas against the impending violence. She positioned herself just behind the bedroom door, her muscles coiled tight like a spring.
The footsteps mounted the stairs—one, two, three steps at a time. Slow. Methodical. Unstoppable.
A shadow fell across the bedroom doorway. A large man in a dark tactical jacket and black gloves stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space with cold efficiency. He held a suppressed firearm pointed downward, his posture relaxed yet instantly lethal.
Eleanor didn't hesitate. With a primal cry that held all the accumulated fury of a mother defending her child, she swung the heavy ceramic lamp with all her might, smashing it directly across the intruder’s shoulder.
The lamp shattered into a thousand pieces against his tactical padding. The man grunted, stumbling half a step to the side, but the thick fabric absorbed the brunt of the blow. He spun around instantly, his reflexes lightning-fast, and caught Eleanor by the wrist, twisting her arm behind her back with brutal, casual strength.
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“Smart woman,” the intruder sneered, pressing her against the bedroom wall, the barrel of the suppressed weapon rising to press coldly against her temple. “Now, where’s the brat and the drive?”
Eleanor stared straight into the man’s cold, dead eyes, refusing to flinch. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
