Chapter 5 - BLOOD ON THE FOYER
Adrien entered his home like a shadow.
The grand marble foyer was filled with acrid white smoke.
The crystal chandelier overhead swung violently, two of its brass tiers shattered by stray bullets.
Three masked mercenaries in gray tactical gear were advancing up the curved staircase.
They were firing short bursts toward the upper landing where Marco’s guards were pinned down.
Adrien did not shout.
He did not announce his presence.
He raised his Kimber .45 and fired three consecutive rounds.
Each bullet found the base of a skull.
The three men tumbled down the marble steps like sacks of flour, their weapons clattering against the stone.
A fourth gunman spun around from behind the marble pillars near the dining room.
He brought up a submachine gun.
Adrien moved with terrifying economy.
He closed the distance in two long strides, slapped the barrel aside, and drove his elbow into the man’s throat.
Cartilage crunched.
Adrien twisted the weapon from the man’s grip and fired a burst into his chest.
The body dropped.
From the top of the stairs, Marco appeared, clutching a bleeding forearm.
“Boss!” Marco yelled over the ringing in their ears.
“Upstairs is clear! We took down six in the courtyard!”
Adrien scanned the foyer.
The antique mirrors were shattered.
The portraits of his ancestors were peppered with shrapnel.
On the narrow mahogany table by the door, the brass estate key still lay where Isabella had placed it.
Beside it lay a puddle of fresh blood.
Adrien picked up the brass key.
He slid it into his vest pocket, next to his heart.
“Casualties?” Adrien asked.
“Two of our outer guards are wounded,” Marco replied, descending the stairs.
“None dead.”
“Where is the rest of Moretti’s crew?”
Marco wiped sweat from his eyes.
“They didn't come to conquer the house, Adrien.”
Adrien’s eyes narrowed.
“Explain.”
“It was a diversion,” Marco said, his voice cracking.
“They hit our gate to draw our perimeter security away from the city hospital.”
Adrien’s stomach plummeted into an icy void.
He turned toward the front door.
Outside, the horn of the Maybach began to blare.
A continuous, frantic wail.
Adrien sprinted through the shattered entrance.
The passenger door of the Maybach was hanging wide open.
The nine-millimeter handgun lay on the wet limestone pavement, its slide locked back.
Three spent casings gleamed in the slush.
Isabella was gone.
A smear of fresh blood marked the passenger seat.
Tire tracks from a heavy delivery van cut deep ruts across the pristine front lawn, leading out through the woods toward the rear service gate.
Adrien fell to one knee beside the open door of his car.
His hand closed around the empty handgun she had dropped.
The metal was still warm from her fingers.
Beneath the gun lay a small, laminated hospital tag.
Leo Jenkins. Room 412.
May you like
Scrawled across the back in black permanent marker was a single sentence:
Dock 19. Come alone, Voss, or they both go into the incinerator.
