Chapter 4 - NIGHT AT THE MANSION
"Claire, take Sophie! Get under the stairs!" I roared, throwing my body over Lucas as the first gunshot shattered the quiet of the mansion.
A high-powered suppressed rifle cracked from the top of the marble staircase. The round slammed into the wall three inches above my head, showering us in white plaster dust and pulverized marble.
Lucas screamed—a high, piercing sound of absolute terror that cut straight to my soul. The sound of the gunshot and the smell of gunpowder had breached his subconscious mind, ripping open six years of suppressed trauma in a single second.
"Fire!" Lucas shrieked, clawing at my shoulders, his eyes wild and unseeing in the dim light of the emergency exit signs. "The car is burning! Mom! Mom!"
"I've got you! I've got you, Lucas!" I yelled, pulling him tightly against my chest, lifting his thirty-pound frame as if he weighed nothing at all.
I sprinted across the polished floor toward the reinforced archway leading to the kitchen, bullets snapping through the air around us, ripping through ancient tapestries and splintering the heavy oak paneling.
Behind us, I heard Marcus and two of my private security officers returning fire. The heavy thud-thud-thud of automatic handguns echoed through the cavernous foyer, accompanied by the shouts of men fighting in the dark.
I kicked open the heavy stainless-steel door of the commercial kitchen, threw myself inside, and slammed the deadbolt home.
Claire was already inside, curled up in the corner beside the industrial refrigeration unit, holding a crying Sophie tightly against her chest.
I set Lucas down on the cold tile floor. He was hyperventilating, his hands clamped over his ears, his body shaking so hard his teeth clicked together.
"Lucas," I said, grabbing his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me in the faint green glow of the exit sign. "Look at me! Look at my eyes!"
He looked at me, his gray-green eyes wide with absolute panic.
"My name is Julian," I told him, tears slipping down my face, mixing with the plaster dust on my cheeks. "The lady in the car... her name was Rebecca. She was your mother, Lucas. And I am your father."
He stared at me, his mouth open, his breathing halting for a fraction of a second.
"Father...?" he whispered, the word sounding strange, foreign, and yet ancient on his tongue.
"Yes, my sweet boy," I sobbed, pressing my forehead against his wet brow. "I've been looking for you for six years. I searched everywhere. I never stopped looking for you."
Before he could process my words, the heavy metal kitchen door groaned violently.
BANG.
A heavy boot slammed against the exterior steel frame. The lock held, but the frame bulged inward by half an inch.
BANG.
"They're going to get in!" Claire screamed from the corner.
I stood up, pulling a heavy brass meat cleaver from the magnetic strip on the wall, stepping between the door and my family.
"Marcus!" I shouted into my lapel mic. "We are trapped in the commercial kitchen! They are breaching the east access door!"
"Hold on, Julian!" Marcus's voice came through, distorted by static and the sound of heavy gunfire. "We took down two of them in the foyer! One moved toward the service hallway! I'm coming around through the butler's pantry!"
BANG.
The door hinges sheared off with a metallic screech.
The heavy steel door fell forward, crashing onto the tile floor.
Through the cloud of dust, a tall man in a black tactical uniform and a full-face balaclava stepped into the room. He held a suppressed submachine gun raised to his shoulder, his eyes cold and unblinking behind the plexiglass visor.
He didn't hesitate. He swung the barrel of his weapon directly toward Lucas.
"No!" I roared, throwing myself forward, swinging the heavy brass cleaver with all the force left in my body.
The blade bit deep into the tactical vest covering his right shoulder, causing his burst of fire to stray wild, bullets chewing through the stainless-steel prep tables and shattering the ceramic wall tiles behind us.
The mercenary grunted in pain, swinging the heavy stock of his rifle around, slamming it directly into the side of my face.
Pain exploded behind my eyes. I hit the wet tile floor hard, taste of copper instantly filling my mouth. My vision swam as the man raised his boot, pinning my head against the floor, bringing the muzzle of his gun down until it pressed directly against the center of my forehead.
"Arthur sends his regards, Mr. Whitaker," the man rasped through his visor.
"Get away from my dad!" a voice screamed.
Through my blurred vision, I saw a small blur of light-blue cotton charge across the kitchen floor.
Lucas didn't run. He didn't hide under a table.
He picked up a heavy, copper sauté pan from the lower shelf and slammed it with all his strength directly into the back of the mercenary's left knee.
The knee buckled with a sharp crack. The mercenary lost his balance, stumbling backward onto the slick, soapy tile floor.
That single second was all Marcus Vance needed.
The side service door burst open. Marcus stepped into the room, raising his Glock, and fired three heavy rounds directly into the center of the mercenary's chest.
The man collapsed onto the floor, his weapon clattering across the tile, coming to rest six inches from my outstretched hand.
Silence fell over the kitchen.
The only sounds remaining were the hiss of a severed steam line in the corner, the distant wail of police sirens approaching from the main gate two miles away, and the heavy, ragged breathing of a ten-year-old boy holding a copper pan.
I pulled myself up off the floor, blood dripping from my lip, and reached out.
Lucas dropped the pan. It hit the floor with a loud, metallic clatter.
He looked at his small hands, then looked up at me.
May you like
"Dad?" he whispered.
I pulled him into my arms, locking him in a tight, desperate embrace, weeping openly as the flashing red and blue lights of thirty police cruisers illuminated the high windows of the estate.
