Chapter 5 - The Siege of Lake Forest
The glass from the corridor windows shattered into thousands of diamond-like shards as a flashbang grenade detonated in the main hall. The blinding white light illuminated three men dressed in tactical gear, their faces hidden behind black balaclavas.
They weren't common thieves. They moved with military precision, their rifles raised, clearing the rooms with cold efficiency.
"In here!" one of them shouted, spotting the open door of the service corridor where Clara stood.
Clara didn't hesitate. She bolted down the narrow stairs toward the basement kitchens. Her ribs screamed in protest, the old injury from the bronze horse flaring with pain, but she ran with the desperate strength of a mother wolf protecting her cub.
"Stop!" a voice yelled behind her. Heavy boots clattered down the metal stairs.
Clara burst into the industrial kitchen. The stainless-steel tables and giant copper pots looked like silver monsters in the dim moonlight filtering through the high, reinforced windows. She looked around wildly for a hiding place, but she knew the basement was a dead end. If they caught them here, there was no escape.
She shoved Noah under a massive, deep-dish iron sink, tucking him behind a row of heavy industrial detergent barrels.
"Stay here," she whispered, her eyes meeting his in the darkness. "Don't make a sound. No matter what happens, don't move."
Noah looked at her, his large eyes filled with an ancient, terrifying intelligence. He nodded once—a slow, deliberate movement that broke Clara’s heart.
Clara stood up, grabbed a heavy iron skillet from the hanging rack, and stepped into the center of the kitchen. She didn't want them searching the sink. She had to be the bait.
A second later, the first gunman burst through the double doors. He raised his weapon, his flashlight beam hitting Clara squarely in the eyes, blinding her.
"Where is the boy?" he demanded, his voice muffled by the mask.
"He's gone," Clara lied, her voice shaking but resolute. "His father’s men took him through the tunnel twenty minutes ago."
The man stepped closer, his boots crunching on a piece of broken tile. "You're lying, girl. You're the nanny. You wouldn't be here without him."
He reached out a heavy, gloved hand to grab her throat.
Clara didn't wait. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she swung the heavy iron skillet. It struck the side of the man’s tactical helmet with a loud, metallic CLANG. The force of the blow vibrated up Clara’s arms, numbing her elbows, but the man merely stumbled back, cursed, and shook his head.
The helmet had absorbed most of the impact.
"You little bitch," he growled, raising his fist.
The blow struck Clara across the jaw. The world went white, then gray. She hit the floor hard, her head bouncing off the concrete. The copper tang of blood filled her mouth. Through the blurred vision of her left eye, she saw the man turn toward the rows of sinks. He was going to find Noah.
Please, she thought, her fingers clawing at the cold concrete, trying to rise. Please, not him.
Suddenly, the heavy steel doors of the kitchen were torn from their hinges.
A figure emerged from the dust and shadow—not a soldier, but a demon in a bespoke tailored suit. Dominic Vale had returned. His coat was gone, his white shirt was stained with dark blood that wasn't his own, and in his right hand, he held a black tactical shotgun that looked like an extension of his own arm.
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He didn't speak. He didn't warn them.
The kitchen erupted into a deafening roar of gunfire.
