Chapter 3 - The Broken Wolf
The safe room was hidden behind a false mahogany panel in the master suite study. It was a six-by-eight-foot space lined with reinforced steel plates, equipped with an independent oxygen supply, a direct fiber-optic link to Roman’s private satellite network, and an array of weapon racks that glittered under the low-voltage LED lights.
Roman laid Emma on a small bench in the corner, wrapping her in a heavy wool blanket.
"Stay here," he said, looking into her wide, terrified eyes. "The door is made of five-inch steel. No one can open it from the outside without my fingerprint. Even if the lights go out, the air will stay clean."
"Are you going to fight them?" she asked.
"I’m going to make sure they can never follow you again," Roman said.
He closed the heavy steel door, the electronic locking mechanism engaging with a deep, heavy thunk that sealed her inside the silent, secure cocoon.
He turned back to the study, where Caleb was waiting. The security chief had a short-barreled automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the security monitor that showed the corridor outside.
On the screen, four figures in black tactical gear were moving slowly down the thirty-fifth-floor hallway, their weapons raised. They moved with a synchronized, lethal precision that spoke of military training.
"They’re using non-lethal flashbangs to clear the rooms," Caleb said. "They’re looking for her. They don't want a body count if they can avoid it, but they’re not hesitating to eliminate anyone who resists."
"Let them reach the vestibule," Roman said. "The floor tiles in the lobby are pressure-sensitive. Once they step onto the marble, activate the fire-suppression system."
"The Halcyon’s system uses Halon gas, Mr. DeLuca," Caleb warned. "It will suffocate anyone in the room within forty seconds if they don't have oxygen gear."
"They brought masks," Roman said, pointing to the respirators attached to the mercenary's helmets on the screen. "But the gas will reduce their visibility to zero and disable their thermal imaging. They’ll be blind."
They waited.
The silence in the penthouse was absolute, save for the steady, rhythmic dripping of the rain against the glass. On the monitor, the lead mercenary reached the heavy double doors of the thirty-sixth-floor private lobby. He checked the lock, then nodded to his partner, who set a small, plastic charge against the brass hinges.
Boom.
The explosion was muffled, a low, deep thud that shook the plaster dust from the ceiling.
As the doors blew inward, the four mercenaries rushed into the room, their weapons pivoting in search of targets.
"Now," Roman said.
Caleb slammed his hand onto the red security button on the wall.
With a high-pitched, metallic hiss, the ceiling vents opened, releasing a thick, white cloud of Halon gas that instantly filled the room like a heavy winter fog. The mercenaries gasped, their weapons firing blindly into the white mist as their thermal sights failed, the cold gas neutralizing the heat signatures of the room.
Roman stepped into the corridor.
He did not rush. He moved with a slow, predatory confidence, his body low, his weapon raised. He knew every inch of this floor. He had designed it to be a maze for anyone who did not belong.
A figure emerged from the white fog to his left, his respirator hissing.
Roman did not hesitate. He fired twice.
The suppressed pop-pop of his Kimber was barely louder than the hiss of the gas. The mercenary grunted, his body collapsing onto the carpet with a heavy, limp thud.
The second mercenary turned toward the sound of the shots, his weapon swinging wild. Roman slid behind a marble column, the bullets chewing through the expensive stone and sending a shower of sharp fragments into the air.
Roman leaned out, firing a single round that struck the mercenary directly in the throat, bypassing the ballistic vest. The man fell, clutching his neck as the Halon gas began to seep into his compromised respirator.
The remaining two mercenaries realized they had walked into a slaughterhouse. They began to retreat toward the shattered doorway, their steps panicked.
But Caleb was already waiting for them.
The massive security chief emerged from the side office, his automatic rifle firing a short, devastating burst that caught the third mercenary in the chest, sending him crashing through a glass coffee table.
The fourth man—the leader—dropped his weapon and raised his hands, his face pale behind the glass of his tactical mask.
"Don't shoot!" he screamed, his voice muffled by the respirator. "I’m just a contractor! Moretti paid us! We were just supposed to secure the asset!"
Roman walked through the thinning white fog, his boots crunching on the shattered glass of the coffee table. He stopped in front of the kneeling man, his gun pointed directly at the bridge of his nose.
He reached down and ripped the mask from the mercenary’s face.
The man was young, with a scar across his chin and eyes that were wide with the sudden, terrifying realization that he was about to die.
"Where is Victor Moretti?" Roman asked.
"He’s at the warehouse!" the man stammered, his hands shaking. "The one by the old canal! Near the south side! He’s waiting for the girl! He... he has a boat ready to take her across the lake!"
Roman looked at Caleb.
"He’s telling the truth, boss," Caleb said, checking the mercenary’s GPS locator. "The signal from their transport vehicle is originating from the old canal docks."
Roman lowered his weapon, but he did not engage the safety.
"Caleb," he said. "Get the cars. We’re going to the south side."
"And the girl?" Caleb asked, looking toward the safe room.
Roman turned his head, his eyes soft as he thought of the child waiting behind the steel door.
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"She stays here with you," Roman said. "You are the only man in this city I trust with her life, Caleb. If I don't come back... take her to St. Louis. Use the private accounts. Make sure she gets the life Claire wanted for her."
Caleb nodded, his face solemn. "She’ll be safe, Mr. DeLuca. On my life."
