Chapter 4 - The Siege of Vance Manor
They had tracked the Sedan. Gabriel wasn't acting alone; he had called in the full heavy weaponry of the Syndicate’s mercenary wing.
Four armored transport trucks burst through the wrought-iron gates, shattering the old iron hinges and grinding over the marble debris. At least thirty heavily armed men spilled out into the courtyard, taking up positions behind the stone pillars and decorative walls.
"Julian!" Gabriel’s voice boomed through a vehicle loudspeaker, distorted by the wind. "You have nowhere left to run! The manor is surrounded, the roads are blocked, and the High Table has authorized total liquidation! Give us the child and the ledger, and we'll grant you a quick end!"
I didn't answer. I lifted Clara into my arms, motioned for Bear to follow, and sprinted into the dark interior of the manor through the service entrance.
The grand foyer was vast, dust-covered, and frozen. Massive crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceiling. I carried Clara up the grand staircase and into the master study on the second floor—a room reinforced with heavy oak doors and steel-lined shutters.
I set Clara down in the corner behind a massive mahogany desk, placing my heavy wool coat over her once more.
"Listen to me, Clara," I said, looking directly into her eyes. "You and Bear stay right here. Do not stand up, do not look out the windows, no matter what you hear. Do you understand?"
She nodded terrified, hugging Bear around his neck. The dog pressed himself firmly against her side, his deep eyes locked on mine as if acknowledging his guard duty.
I pulled two spare high-capacity magazines from my pocket and set them on the desk, then retrieved an old lever-action Winchester rifle from the display case behind the desk—a gift from my father thirty years ago. It was clean, oiled, and loaded.
I stepped back out onto the second-floor balcony overlooking the grand foyer just as the heavy front doors were kicked off their hinges with a violent blast of explosive cord.
Mercenaries flooded the lower hall, flashlight beams sweeping through the gloom.
"Search every room!" a squad leader commanded. "Find the kid!"
I racked the lever of the Winchester with a sharp, mechanical clack that echoed through the vast foyer.
"Welcome to my home," I called out from the upper darkness.
I fired.
The heavy rifle round slammed into the lead mercenary, dropping him instantly. Before the others could locate my position, I racked the lever again and fired two more shots, taking down two men near the entrance.
The foyer erupted into chaotic gunfire. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark walls like strobes as bullets tore into the plaster, shattering wood panels and blowing the crystal chandeliers to pieces. Glass rained down onto the marble floor like ice.
I moved along the balcony, firing with ruthless precision, using the heavy stone pillars for cover. Years of tactical instincts took over. Every shot had a purpose; every movement was calculated. But unlike the battles of my past, where I fought for power or territory, tonight I was fighting for the only thing that gave my worthless life meaning.
A mercenary sprinted up the west staircase, attempting to flank my position. I dropped the empty rifle, drew my Kimber, and met him at the landing. I deflected his rifle barrel downward, drove my elbow into his jaw, and threw him over the ornate railing to the marble floor thirty feet below.
Another burst of automatic fire shattered the oak doors of the master study behind me.
My heart stopped.
"Clara!" I roared.
Ignoring the crossfire, I lunged back into the study. A mercenary had breached the room through a side window from the balcony terrace. He had his weapon raised, pointing it directly at the corner where Clara was hiding.
Bear acted first.
Despite his mangled leg, the dog launched himself across the room with a furious roar, his jaws locking onto the mercenary’s forearm. The man shrieked, firing his weapon wildly into the ceiling as he struggled to throw the animal off.
I closed the distance in a flash, driving my combat knife into the soldier’s chest plate gap. The man collapsed, lifeless.
Bear fell to his side, panting heavily, a red stain spreading across his muddy shoulder where a stray bullet had grazed him.
"Bear!" Clara cried out, crawling from under the desk to throw her arms around the dog's neck.
"He's okay," I said quickly, checking the animal's wound. It was a shallow graze. "He's a fighter."
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I picked Clara up again, looking down at the stairs. The sound of more boots was mounting below. Gabriel was throwing everything he had into this assault. We couldn't hold the study forever; we needed an escape route.
"There's a tunnel under the wine cellar," I told myself, remembering the old smuggling passages my father had built during the territory wars. "We make our stand there."
