Chapter 6 - Shadows in the Night
The safehouse was located deep within the heavily wooded hills overlooking the Scioto River, roughly two miles from Brennan’s main estate. It was an understated, fortress-like stone lodge equipped with state-of-the-art biometric security, reinforced glass, and a round-the-clock tactical surveillance team.
Following Brennan’s warning about Arthur’s desperate maneuvers, we had relocated there for the night.
Inside the warmly lit timber living room, I sat by the stone hearth, reviewing the probate asset transfers on my tablet while sipping chamomile tea. Outside, a heavy autumn wind howled through the pine trees, thrashing branches against the reinforced windows.
Brennan stood by the heavy front door, conferring in hushed tones with Marcus and two tactical commanders.
“The perimeter sensors on the eastern ridge just tripped,” one of the commanders reported, tapping a glowing tactical tablet. “Thermal imaging shows three individuals moving through the tree line. Moving fast. Professional gear, suppressed sidearms.”
Brennan’s face hardened into stone. He reached into his leather shoulder holster, checking the slide of a heavy Sig Sauer pistol before clicking the safety off.
“They didn't waste any time,” Brennan muttered.
He turned his gaze toward me across the room. “Lana. Up. Into the secure panic room behind the master bookshelf. Now.”
“Brennan, I’m not hiding,” I said, standing up and setting my tablet down firmly. “I’m done running from the Sullivans.”
“This isn't a debate,” Brennan said, crossing the room in three long strides and grabbing my arm with firm, unyielding urgency. “Arthur sent hitmen. They aren't here to negotiate. Move!”
Before I could reply, a deafening explosion shattered the calm of the night.
BOOM.
The heavy front security door shuddered as a localized breach charge detonated against the exterior deadbolts, blowing reinforced steel hinges clean out of the masonry. Shrapnel and splintered timber showered across the entryway.
Instantly, muzzle flashes erupted from the shattered doorway.
“Contact! Contact right!” Marcus shouted, dropping to one knee and returning fire with his submachine gun, illuminating the dark hallway with blinding staccato bursts of orange light.
Brennan shoved me forcibly behind a heavy oak pillar. “Stay down!” he roared over the deafening crack of gunfire.
Bullets punched through the drywall above us, raining plaster dust down onto our hair. Two professional operatives in black tactical gear poured through the shattered doorway, weapons raised, sweeping the room with laser sights.
Marcus caught the lead intruder in the shoulder; the man staggered back against the wall, dropping his weapon. But the second operative bypassed his fallen comrade, raising his rifle directly toward the living room where I was crouched.
I froze, my breath locking in my lungs.
In a fraction of a second, Brennan moved.
He vaulted over the sofa, tackling the second operative mid-air. They crashed hard onto the hardwood floor, sliding across the room. The gunman struggled to bring his weapon to bear, but Brennan struck him twice in the temple with the heavy butt of his pistol, rendering the man unconscious with brutal efficiency.
Silence descended upon the lodge, broken only by the crackle of the stone fireplace and the groans of the wounded intruders.
Marcus and the tactical team secured the perimeter, zip-tying the two surviving gunmen while sweeping the remaining rooms.
Brennan stood up, brushing plaster dust from his shoulders. He walked over to where I was kneeling, his chest heaving slightly, and extended a hand to pull me up.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his dark eyes scanning me frantically for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine,” I breathed, shaking as the adrenaline rush began to fade. “I’m completely fine.”
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Brennan pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my hair. The embrace was fierce, protective, and entirely stripped of his usual impenetrable armor.
“I told you,” he whispered fiercely against my ear, “no one touches what is mine.”
