Chapter 6 - BLOOD AND MARBLE
The third-floor hallway was filled with smoke and the metallic smell of spent gunpowder.
Inside the reinforced security room, Claire held Lucy tightly in her arms. The heavy steel door shuddered as sparks showered from the edges—Moretti's mercenaries were using a portable cutting torch to breach the lock.
Lucy buried her face in Claire’s neck, her small shoulders shaking as she sobbed softly. "Mommy... I'm scared. Where is Mr. Vincent?"
"Shh, baby, shh," Claire whispered, tears streaming down her pale face as she pressed her daughter close. "It's okay. Mommy's here. It's going to be okay."
Claire looked around the room for a weapon. She found a heavy brass fire extinguisher near the wall, picking it up with hands that shook violently. She knew she couldn't stop armed men, but she was prepared to fight to her last breath for her child.
Outside in the hallway, three heavily armed mercenaries in tactical gear stood around the door, watching the thermite burn through the steel deadbolts.
"Hurry up with that torch!" the team lead barked, adjusting his assault rifle. "Moretti wants Calder’s head on a spike, and he wants everyone in this house dead before the cops get past the front gate!"
Suddenly, the soft, distinct hum of an electric wheelchair motor echoed down the marble corridor.
The mercenaries spun around, raising their weapons into the haze of white smoke.
Out of the darkness rolled Vincent Calder.
He sat upright in his chair, his broad chest rising and falling slowly. He wore no body armor, no helmet—just his dark suit, his silver scar illuminated by the sparks of the cutting torch, and a heavy revolver held resting against his right thigh.
The mercenary lead blinked, stunned. "Well, look at this. The big bad crime boss rolled right up to us."
"You're in my house," Vincent said. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a terrifying, heavy weight that cut through the sound of the burning torch.
The mercenary chuckled, stepping forward and leveling his rifle at Vincent’s chest. "Not anymore, old man. Sal Moretti sends his regards—"
BANG. BANG.
Vincent fired twice through the smoke before the man could finish his sentence.
The heavy .45 rounds shattered the lead mercenary's tactical vest, lifting him off his feet and slamming his body against the wall.
The other two mercenaries opened fire, bullets tearing into the marble walls and shattering the crystal wall sconces above Vincent’s head.
Vincent didn't flinch. He operated his wheelchair's joystick with his left hand, spinning the chair behind a heavy marble pillar as glass and stone showered around him.
A bullet grazed Vincent’s left shoulder, soaking his white shirt in dark blood, but he felt no pain. The adrenaline surging through his veins had completely erased two years of lethargy and weakness.
He leaned out from behind the pillar and fired three more shots with brutal, terrifying precision.
One mercenary dropped with a bullet through his neck. The second panicked, trying to reload his weapon, but Vincent wheeled his chair straight toward him, slamming the heavy steel footrests into the man's kneecaps with devastating force.
The mercenary screamed, falling to the floor. Vincent reached down, grabbed the man by his tactical vest, and slammed his head repeatedly against the marble floor until he went still.
Silence returned to the third-floor corridor, broken only by the crackle of the dying torch.
Vincent sat in his chair, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his shoulder down his arm. He looked at the three dead men lying across his pristine floor.
Slowly, he wheeled up to the smoking steel door. He picked up a fallen tactical radio from one of the dead guards and clicked the button.
"Sal Moretti," Vincent said into the mic, his voice echoing through every tactical radio in the estate.
A voice answered over the static, dripping with arrogance. "Calder? Is that you? You're hiding like a rat up there while my men tear your castle apart."
"I am not hiding, Sal," Vincent said softly, staring at the burned lock of the door. "I am waiting for you on the third floor. Come up and finish it yourself. Or are you as much of a coward as Grant Mercer?"
A pause on the line, followed by Sal’s enraged roar. "I'm coming up, you crippled bastard! I'm going to put a bullet between your eyes myself!"
May you like
Vincent dropped the radio. He reached out and knocked his calloused knuckles twice against the hot steel door.
"Mrs. Rowan," Vincent called out softly. "It's safe. Open the door."
