Chapter 11
Back inside the darkened study, Arthur moved through the shadows like a ghost. He had spent his entire life building his empire from the ground up, refusing to let corrupt corporate predators dictate his terms, and he was not about to let a pair of hired mercenaries burn it down without a fight. He crept silently toward the top of the main staircase, peering down into the wrecked foyer where two operatives were sweeping the ground floor with tactical flashlights.
"The girl’s gone," one of them barked into a comm-link attached to his collar, his voice distorted by the static. "We checked the upper perimeter and the study. The back utility tunnel is sealed from the inside. She must have taken the water route."
"Find her," Julian Vance’s cold, smooth voice filtered clearly through the operative's open receiver from somewhere outside the perimeter. "If she reaches the federal task force with that hardware, we are all finished. Burn the house down if you have to, but recover that phone."
Arthur didn't wait for them to finish their sweep. He raised his revolver and fired two precise shots into the chandelier hanging directly above the foyer. The heavy iron and crystal fixture shattered with a deafening crash, plunging the entryway into absolute chaos as tons of glass and metal rained down on the operatives below.
Before the dust could settle, Arthur vaulted over the banister, landing soundlessly on the carpeted landing of the ground floor. He sprinted toward the side exit leading to the gardens, his boots pounding against the hardwood.
A sharp pain flared in his shoulder as a stray bullet grazed the fabric of his white shirt, burning hot against his skin, but he didn't slow down. He pushed through the heavy French doors, bursting out into the cool morning air just as the estate's security alarms began to wail in protest, triggered by the automated sprinkler system flooding the property.
Outside, the landscape was a blur of manicured hedges and smoking flowerbeds—the very same grounds where Richard had cornered Clara just days ago. Arthur knew he couldn't outrun a tactical team in the open, but he didn't need to outrun them. He just needed to buy Clara enough time to reach the federal agents waiting at Sandy Cove.
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From the tree line, a dark figure stepped out into the mist, blocking his path toward the main gate. It wasn't an operative in tactical gear; it was Richard Vance himself, disheveled, his expensive white shirt stained with dirt and blood from Arthur’s initial assault, his eyes wild and bloodshot with desperate rage.
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