Chapter 13 - The Conservatory Trap
The dimly lit hallway smelled faintly of ozone and cedar wood as I moved with silent, calculated precision toward the back of the sprawling manor. The heavy thud of combat boots echoing against the hardwood floor of the east wing confirmed Marcus’s report: the mercenaries were attempting a secondary breach through the glass conservatory.
I pressed my back against the textured wallpaper beside the archway leading into the sunlit plant room. Moonlight streamed through the shattered glass dome overhead, where the heat from the explosion outside had melted the frost, casting long, fractured shadows across thousands of thriving green ferns and orchids.
Two figures clad in black tactical gear crept through the broken French doors, their assault rifles raised, sweeping the room with sweeping, laser-guided sights. Their breath plumed white in the freezing night air pouring through the broken glass.
'Sector clear,' the lead mercenary hissed through his tactical headset, his voice raspy and distorted by a radio scrambler. 'Target is barricaded in the main library. Moving in to—'
He didn't get to finish his sentence.
I stepped out from the shadows, raising my weapon with absolute, unyielding calm. 'Drop your weapons or your next breath will be your last.'
Both operatives whipped around with lightning speed, their rifle barrels swinging toward my chest. But hesitation is fatal in close-quarters combat. Before their fingers could squeeze the triggers, a sharp, deafening crack echoed from the balcony above. Marcus’s precise sniper shot struck the lead mercenary’s rifle barrel, shattering the steel casing and sending a shower of stinging sparks into his face.
The second operative lunged forward, trying to tackle me to the marble floor, but I pivoted smoothly on my heel, using his own momentum against him, and drove the butt of my pistol hard into the side of his helmet with bone-rattling force. He collapsed instantly, hitting the stone floor like a sack of dead weight and sliding unconscious into a bed of prize-winning ferns.
The first mercenary dropped his ruined rifle, raising his hands slowly as Marcus dropped down from the balcony, keeping his tactical shotgun leveled squarely at the man’s chest.
'Don't even think about it,' Marcus warned coldly.
I walked forward, holstering my sidearm, and grabbed the mercenary by the collar of his tactical vest, pulling him up until our eyes met through his tinted visor. 'Who sent you? Give me Harrison Cole’s exact coordinates right now, or you won't live to see the inside of a federal holding cell.'
The mercenary chuckled darkly, spitting a glob of blood onto the marble floor. 'You think... you think Cole is hiding in some dark basement waiting for you to find him? You’re too late, Ms. Sterling. The transfer is already in motion.'
'What transfer?' I demanded, pressing the barrel of my spare sidearm gently against his chest.
'The federal treasury wire,' the mercenary wheezed, smiling through broken teeth. 'Cole’s lawyers just filed an emergency sovereign debt claim seizing the entire St. Jude Estate trust under an ancient colonial charter. By sunrise, this house—and everything your mother owns—won't belong to you anymore. It will belong to Blackwood Heritage.'
A cold shiver ran down my spine. It wasn't just a physical assault on our home; it was a sophisticated legal blitzkrieg designed to strip us of our land while we were distracted by bullets and fire.
'Marcus, secure him in the basement vault,' I commanded, turning on my heel. 'We’re going to Washington. Right now.'
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My mother walked out from the library doorway, her expression calm, her eyes burning with an unshakeable resolve. She didn't ask what happened. She didn't need to.
'Let’s go take our estate back,' she said simply.
