Chapter 8 - SIEGE AT THE RIVER
The first rocket hit the iron perimeter gates with a thunderous roar.
The shockwave rattled the leaded glass windows of the library.
Flames erupted through the rhododendron bushes along the driveway.
“Elena, behind the desk!” Damian commanded.
He didn't waste time arguing.
He dragged the heavy mahogany conference table onto its side, creating a solid oak barricade in front of the window.
He shoved me down behind it.
The sound of high-caliber rifle fire shredded the morning quiet.
Glass exploded inward.
Shards rained across the Persian rugs like diamonds.
Heavy slugs chewed through the plaster walls, obliterating rows of antique books.
Clouds of pulverized paper and white plaster filled the air.
“Luca, what’s our status?” Damian shouted over the deafening barrage.
He was firing through the broken window frame with lethal, methodical precision.
Two shots.
A pause.
Two shots.
Through the smoke outside, a shooter crumpled on the lawn.
“Outer perimeter compromised!” Luca shouted from the hallway, his submachine gun chattering in three-round bursts.
“They cut the power grid! We’re on emergency batteries!”
The overhead lights died, replaced by the amber emergency beacons along the baseboards.
The smell of cordite and burning drywall was suffocating.
I crouched behind the oak table, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I wasn't a soldier.
I was an accountant and an architect’s daughter.
My eyes darted around the ruined library.
Near the fireplace sat the estate’s antique heating manifold—a network of exposed copper and brass pipes feeding natural gas to the boilers in the cellar.
My father had taught me industrial plumbing before I could drive.
I looked at the gas line shut-off valve.
Beside it was the main ventilation duct running out to the lawn.
“Damian!” I yelled.
He dropped down beside me to reload, his chest heaving.
A streak of fresh blood ran down his forearm where a flying glass shard had sliced through his shirt.
“What?” he barked, slamming a magazine home.
“The exterior ventilation intake!” I shouted, pointing to the copper pipes.
“The blowers exhaust directly into the sunken garden beneath that terrace where they’re taking cover!”
Damian’s eyes followed my finger.
His sharp tactical mind grasped the plan in half a second.
“The gas pressure in the boilers,” Damian murmured.
“Can you override the safety regulator?”
“I can crack the manual bleed valve,” I said.
“It will flood the sunken garden with raw propane in sixty seconds.”
“And then?”
“And then you give them a spark,” I said.
A feral, dangerous smile touched Damian’s lips.
“You truly are Gavin’s daughter.”
He reached into his pocket and handed me a heavy steel pipe wrench from his emergency kit.
“Luca! Cover the corridor!” Damian roared.
Damian lunged across the exposed floorboards, drawing fire toward the east windows.
Bullets ripped through the floorboards at his heels.
I didn't hesitate.
I dropped to my stomach, crawling across the plaster-covered carpet toward the brass manifold by the hearth.
The smell of gunpowder burned my throat.
I reached the copper pipes.
The emergency regulator valve was locked with a red safety pin.
I jammed the wrench into the cotter pin and yanked hard.
The rusted metal sheared off.
I threw my weight against the heavy brass valve wheel.
Turn.
Turn, damn you.
The brass groaned under the leverage.
With a sharp hiss, the valve spun wide open.
Through the floorboards, I felt the violent surge of high-pressure liquid gas rushing into the exterior exhaust vents.
Outside, in the sunken garden forty feet away, the heavy smell of propane erupted like a chemical fog.
Shouts of confusion in Italian rose from the Corsetti mercenaries.
“Che cos'è questo odore?!”
“Gas! Ritirata!”
“Damian! Now!” I screamed.
Damian leaned out from behind the stone pillar of the window.
He raised his weapon, aimed directly at the iron exhaust grate on the lawn, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck the iron grate, showering sparks into the concentrated cloud of gas.
The world vanished into a blinding wall of yellow and orange fire.
The explosion roared like a collapsing skyscraper.
The concussive shockwave blew the remaining window frames completely out of the masonry.
The sunken garden became an inferno.
Mercenaries were thrown across the lawn like rag dolls, their weapons scattering into the flames.
The surviving vehicles slammed into reverse, tires smoking, fleeing down the burning driveway.
Silence returned to the estate.
Only the crackle of burning bushes and the hiss of broken pipes remained.
I sat against the stone hearth, covered in soot, my hands trembling violently around the iron wrench.
Damian walked across the ruined room.
He dropped his smoking gun onto the floor.
He knelt in front of me.
He didn't say a word.
He reached out with both hands, cupping my face with calloused, soot-stained fingers.
He pulled my forehead gently against his chest.
I could hear his heart.
Heavy.
Fast.
Wild.
“You’re alive,” he whispered against my hair.
His voice shook with an emotion he had kept locked away for twelve years.
“I’m alive,” I breathed, burying my fingers in the fabric of his shirt.
May you like
“Now,” I said, looking up into his fierce gray eyes.
“We have an Ashcroft board meeting to attend.”
