Chapter 17 - The Siege of the Victorian House
The sound of splintering wood and heavy boots stomping across the marble foyer echoed clearly down the cellar stairs. I froze on the bottom step, holding my breath, my hand tightening around the heavy flashlight in my pocket.
“Clear the ground floor!” a harsh, guttural voice shouted overhead. “Check the kitchen! Check the study! The girl came this way!”
Viktor Vance’s enforcers had breached the house. They knew Lily was here, and they knew the medical files were somewhere inside.
I slipped quietly back up the narrow cellar stairs, pushing the hidden wardrobe panel open just a fraction of an inch to peer into the master bedroom.
Two men in tactical gear, dressed entirely in black with balaclavas concealing their faces, were tearing through the bedroom. Drawers were dumped onto the floor, the mattress was slashed open with a hunting knife, and expensive lamps were smashed to pieces.
“Nothing in the master suite,” one of them growled into a shoulder radio. “Checking the west wing.”
I waited until their footsteps faded down the hallway toward the guest rooms, then slipped out of the wardrobe into the ruined bedroom. I needed to reach my office desk before they did—the backup hard drive containing the complete decrypted syndicate ledger was still hidden inside the false bottom of the mahogany filing cabinet.
I crept silently down the hallway, keeping to the shadows of the Persian runner rug. The house felt entirely different now—no longer a sanctuary of mourning and memory, but a battleground.
As I reached the open door of my study, a heavy hand grabbed my shoulder from behind, spinning me around with brutal force and slamming me against the wood-paneled wall.
“Found her,” a deep voice grunted, pressing the barrel of a silenced pistol against my ribs.
The man towering over me was broad-shouldered and scarred, wearing the same tactical gear as the others. His dark eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction.
“Where is the girl, Emma?” he hissed, leaning in close. “And where is the backup drive?”
I didn't flinch. I looked straight into his eyes, forcing a cold, defiant smile onto my face. “You’re too late. The drive was automatically uploaded to the FBI central server ten minutes ago. If you pull that trigger, the entire syndicate goes down with me.”
The enforcer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his finger tightening slightly on the pistol trigger.
It was the only opening I needed. I raised my knee with all my might, driving it straight into his groin.
He let out a choked gasp, his grip loosening instantly as he doubled over in agony. I didn't wait to see him recover. I bolted down the hallway toward the front stairs, leaping down the risers two at a time.
Behind me, an angry roar echoed down the hall. “Get back here, you bitch!”
A silenced pistol cracked, and a bullet whined past my ear, embedding itself deeply into the plaster wall beside the staircase.
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I hit the marble foyer floor running, diving behind the overturned mahogany reception table just as a second bullet shattered the remaining glass of the front window.
I was trapped in the center of the room with nowhere left to run—until the front door was kicked off its remaining hinges entirely, and a blinding flood of white tactical spotlight filled the foyer.
