Chapter 4 - The Traitor in the Hall
The brass doorknob turned, clicked, and dropped.
I pressed my back against the carved mahogany headboard, clutching Mason against my chest so hard I could barely feel my own ribs burning. My hands searched frantically around the nightstand—my fingers brushing past a silver picture frame, an empty glass, until they wrapped around the heavy crystal decanter of water Alexander had left earlier.
The bedroom door swung open with a bang.
A man stepped into the room. He was tall, dressed in a tactical black uniform without any badges or logos, a dark ski mask pulled over his face. He held a silenced submachine gun in his gloved hands, its barrel sweeping across the room until it locked onto the bed.
"Well, well," the man sneered through the fabric of his mask. His voice was thick, wet, and held a faint, familiar drawl. "Look what we have here. The new nanny hiding in the dark."
Behind him, two more armed men stepped into the corridor, securing the doorway.
"Don't come any closer," I gasped, my voice trembling, holding the heavy crystal decanter up like a club. "Mr. Blackwood will kill you. His guards—"
"His guards are currently bleeding out in the foyer," the man chuckled softly, taking a slow step toward the bed. "Alexander was so focused on hunting ghosts in Houston that he forgot to check his own front gate. Now, hand over the boy nice and quiet, little girl, and maybe I won't put a bullet through your pretty face."
Mason whimpered against my neck, his tiny hands clutching my hair.
"Why do you want a four-year-old?" I demanded, trying to buy time, listening frantically for the sound of Alexander's footsteps, for anything. "He's just a child!"
"He's a two-hundred-million-dollar bargaining chip," the man said, lowering his gun slightly as he reached out a gloved hand to snatch Mason from my arms. "And more importantly, he's the last thing Alexander loves. Once we have him, Blackwood surrenders his entire syndicate by sunrise."
He lunged forward, grabbing my shoulder with a vice-like grip, yanking me off the bed.
"No!" I screamed.
I swung the crystal decanter with every ounce of strength remaining in my body.
The thick glass smashed directly into the side of his tactical helmet with a loud CRACK! Water and shattered crystal exploded across the bed. The man grunted in shock, stumbling back a step, dropping his weapon onto the rug.
"You crazy bitch!" he roared.
He recovered instantly, driving his gloved fist forward. The punch caught me directly in my injured right ribs.
A soundless scream tore from my throat as my world went entirely white. The sheer, blinding agony overwhelmed my senses; I collapsed onto the carpet, unable to move, unable to draw air into my lungs, my body convulsing in sheer shock.
The man spat on the carpet, shaking his bruised head. He reached down and grabbed Mason by his pajama collar, hoisting the screaming, thrashing boy off the bed like a bag of laundry.
"Got you, you little brat—"
A shadow materialized in the doorway behind him.
It didn't look human. It moved with a terrifying, liquid speed that defied gravity.
Alexander Blackwood stepped into the nursery. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing a dark, blood-stained undershirt, his chest and arms smeared with fresh crimson. In his right hand, he held a long, curved tactical blade that glistened in the red emergency light.
Before the intruder could turn around, Alexander grabbed the back of the man's tactical vest and slammed him headfirst into the solid oak doorframe.
The sound of shattering bone echoed through the room.
The man dropped Mason. I dragged myself across the floor on my elbows, crying out in pain, grabbing Mason before he hit the ground, pulling him beneath my body to protect him.
The nursery became an arena of nightmare execution.
Alexander didn't shoot. He fought with a feral, terrifying precision. He sidestepped the second intruder's gunfire, grabbed the barrel of the weapon, twisted it until the man's wrist snapped with a loud pop, and drove his tactical blade straight through the man's throat in one fluid, continuous motion.
Blood spattered across the white wallpaper.
The third intruder turned to run down the hallway, but Alexander leaped forward like a panther, tackling him to the floor. The two men rolled down the carpeted hall, grunting, tearing, untethered violence echoing through the West Wing.
Inside the nursery, I lay on the floor, coughing, blood pooling on my lip where I’d bitten through my cheek during the punch. Mason was sobbing beneath me, his hands wrapped tightly around my neck.
"It's over... it's over..." I gasped, rubbing his back with a trembling hand. "We're okay..."
A heavy, wheezing sound rose from the doorway.
The first intruder—the man who had punched me—was still alive. He was sitting propped up against the doorframe, blood trickling from under his ski mask where my decanter had shattered his cheekbone. His gun was lying three feet away from him on the carpet.
He reached out a trembling, gloved hand, trying to drag the gun toward himself.
"Don't..." I rasped, trying to push myself up, but my ribs refused to obey. "Stop..."
The man didn't stop. His gloved fingers brushed the metallic handle of the submachine gun.
Suddenly, a heavy leather boot came down on his hand, crushing his fingers into the hardwood floor beneath the carpet.
CRUNCH.
The man shrieked in agony.
Alexander stood above him, breathing heavily, his dark hair soaked in sweat and blood. His silver eyes were completely dead—void of mercy, void of humanity. He picked up the man's gun, tossed it aside, and reached down, grabbing the intruder by the front of his tactical vest, dragging him up until the man was pinned against the wall.
"Who sent you?" Alexander asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was a terrifying, quiet whisper that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Fuck... you, Blackwood..." the man coughed, blood bubbling from his mouth. "You're... you're already dead..."
Alexander didn't argue. He raised his tactical blade, pressing the cold steel against the man's eye socket.
"I will ask you once more," Alexander whispered. "Who gave you the security bypass codes for the North Gate?"
The man began to shake violently, realizing that Alexander was seconds away from driving the blade into his brain. "It was... it was the old lady!" he gasped, terror overwhelming his loyalty. "The old lady in the house! She... she gave us the keycard at midnight!"
I froze on the floor.
The old lady.
Alexander’s eyes narrowed into slits. "What old lady?"
May you like
Before the man could answer, a soft, dry voice rang out from the darkened doorway behind Alexander.
"He means me, Alexander."
