Chapter 10 - The Breach
“Get inside!” I hissed, snapping the security chain off and hauling Claire through the French doors into the study just as a deafening volley of shattering glass echoed from the front foyer.
The security alarms shrieked to life, flashing blinding crimson lights across the high ceilings. Someone had just blown through the front security gates, ramming a heavy vehicle straight into the double mahogany doors of the mansion.
“Lock the doors!” Claire sobbed, stumbling backward against the bookshelf. “They won't stop until they destroy every trace of Apex Holdings!”
“Stay behind the desk,” I ordered, my adrenaline surging past fear. I didn't panic; I pivoted. Dad had anticipated every scenario, including the desperate retaliation of the shadow syndicate backing Raymond.
I sprinted to the hidden baseboard panel behind the desk, punching in a four-digit biometric code my father had taught me on my eighteenth birthday. A heavy steel compartment slid open, revealing not more documents, but a sleek, satellite-linked emergency security terminal and a licensed 9mm handgun in a biometric lock box.
Heavy boots pounded across the marble floor of the foyer, shattering priceless vases and antique furniture as intruders swept through the manor.
*“Clear the ground floor!”* a gruff voice shouted down the hallway. *“Find the girl and get the hard drives!”*
I pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner of the lock box. The green light blinked, and the lid popped open. I picked up the heavy firearm, feeling its reassuring weight in my palm, and checked the chamber. Fully loaded.
The study door flew open with a violent kick.
A masked man in tactical gear stepped into the room, holding an assault rifle raised and ready. He swept the barrel across the empty space until his eyes landed on me standing calmly behind the mahogany desk.
“End of the line, Ms. Vance,” the intruder growled, leveling the rifle straight at my chest. “Hand over the drives and walk away.”
I didn't raise my hands. I raised the weapon, my grip steady and unwavering, and fired a warning shot that shattered the crystal chandelier right above his head, raining sharp glass down around his shoulders.
“You picked the wrong house, and the wrong Vance,” I said coldly.
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Before the intruder could recover, the heavy oak double doors of the study burst open again—not from the intruders, but from the tactical response unit of the federal police, who had been tracking the syndicate’s encrypted radio frequencies all evening.
Flashbangs detonated in the hallway with blinding brilliance and deafening thunder.
