Chapter 4 - Breach in the West Wing
The alarm echoed like a klaxon through the opulent corridors of the mansion, turning the warm, domestic tranquility into a war zone in a fraction of a second.
Damian slammed his mug down onto the marble island, the hot tea splashing over the rim. Without a word, he ripped a suppressed Sig Sauer pistol from the holster concealed beneath his waistband, racking the slide with a sharp, lethal clack.
“Stay here,” Damian ordered, his eyes locked on the hallway doors.
“No!” Hannah cried, terror gripping her chest. “My daughter is upstairs!”
“Stay behind me!” Damian barked, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a warlord.
They sprinted down the grand staircase, their footsteps pounding against the imported Italian marble. By the time they reached the corridor of the west wing, two of Damian’s elite personal guards were already lying on the Persian runner, unconscious, bleeding from heavy blows to the head.
The door to Ellie’s bedroom was blasted off its reinforced hinges, splintered wood littering the cream-colored carpet.
“Ellie!” Hannah shrieked, sprinting past the guards and throwing herself into the smoke-filled, ransacked bedroom.
Damian swept into the room behind her, his pistol raised, scanning every dark corner, every shadow, every possible angle of attack. The room was utterly destroyed. Mattress slashed, dresser drawers dumped onto the floor, toys and stuffed animals scattered everywhere.
And in the center of the chaos sat Ellie.
The three-year-old was curled up inside her overturned toy chest, clutching her brand-new box of Crayola crayons to her chest like a shield, trembling so violently she couldn't even cry out.
Hannah dropped to her knees, scooping her daughter up into her arms, sobbing hysterically as she buried her face in the child's curls. “Ellie! My baby! Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“Mommy…” Ellie whimpered, her little voice shaking. “The bad man was looking for the pictures. He asked me where I kept the rest of the crayons.”
Damian didn't move. He stood statue-still in the center of the ruined bedroom, his eyes fixed on the open window leading out to the second-floor stone balcony. The glass was shattered outward, and a single, heavy-duty tactical grappling hook hung from the stone railing, swinging gently in the freezing night wind.
Marcus Vance hadn't acted alone.
Even with Marcus locked in the sub-level armory, the Moretti syndicate had an active cell operating inside the estate. Someone else had access to the master blueprints. Someone else knew where Ellie slept.
Damian walked over to the shattered window, looked down into the dark, snowy courtyard below, and felt a cold, murderous fury ignite deep within his bones.
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They thought they could strike at his house. They thought they could terrorize the little girl who had taught him how to live.
They had just signed their own death warrants.
