Chapter 13
The emergency klaxons bathed the underground vault in a pulsing, blood-red strobe light, casting long, frantic shadows across the metal filing cabinets. Elena wrenched her arm free from the commander’s grip, sprinting up the concrete staircase two steps at a time. Her breath burned in her lungs, and the white button-down shirt clung damply to her skin, torn near the shoulder where she had caught it earlier on the broken glass.
As she burst through the heavy basement doors back into the grand hallway, the chaos upstairs had intensified tenfold.
The local federal marshals were scattered, pinned down behind heavy mahogany furniture as automatic gunfire chewed through the imported wood panels of the foyer. Through the shattered front doors, shadowy figures in heavy tactical gear were swarming the grounds, overwhelming the perimeter guards in a silent, coordinated assault.
Evelyn was nowhere to be seen. Her cane lay abandoned on the Persian rug next to a shattered glass goblet, the silver handle glinting in the harsh strobe lights.
“Grandmother!” Elena screamed, her voice cutting through the gunfire as she scanned the smoke-filled room.
Julian was huddled beneath a heavy oak dining table, his tuxedo jacket torn and stained with dirt, covering his head with his hands as glass rained down from the ceiling.
A heavy, gloved hand suddenly grabbed Elena by the shoulder, spinning her around. It wasn't the tactical commander from the basement, nor was it a federal marshal. It was one of Marcus Cole’s private mercenaries, his face obscured by a gas mask, dragging her toward the broken terrace doors leading out into the stormy night.
“Move! If you want to live to see sunrise, you come with us!” the operative shouted over the roar of the wind and gunfire.
Elena fought against his grip, kicking backward with her heels, but the operative was too strong, hauling her toward the dark, rain-soaked gardens.
As they crossed the threshold of the shattered glass doors, a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the terrace. Standing near the edge of the stone balustrade, calmly holding an umbrella against the lashing rain, was an older man with short, silver-streaked hair and a familiar, piercing gaze.
The man lowered his umbrella slightly, revealing the face everyone in the Vance family had mourned at a closed-casket funeral two decades ago.
Julian stumbled out onto the terrace behind them, gasping for air, and froze the moment he saw the man standing in the rain.
“You... you’re dead,” Julian choked out, falling to his knees on the wet flagstones.
May you like
The older man smiled faintly, stepping into the dim light of the terrace lamps.
“Death is just another corporate restructuring, Julian,” he said softly.
