Chapter 5 - Fire in the Hills
The heavy oak door of the master suite blew inward with a deafening crash as a concussion grenade detonated down the hallway, sending a shockwave rattling through the glass windows.
"Get down!" Roman shouted, grabbing Savannah by the waist and bodily throwing her behind the heavy oak base of the walk-in closet.
"Roman—!"
"Stay down, do not move, and do not make a sound," he commanded, his voice carrying the terrifying authority of a military general stepping onto a battlefield. He chambered a round in his pistol, his dark eyes locked on the dark corridor outside. "If the door opens and it's not me, you pull the trigger on the secondary piece in the drawer. Do you understand?"
Before she could answer, he vanished into the shadows of the bedroom.
The next thirty seconds felt like a lifetime. Gunfire erupted outside the suite—sharp, rhythmic cracks of suppressed automatic weapons clashing in the hallway. Shouts, the sound of breaking glass, and heavy thuds echoed through the walls as Roman’s security detail engaged the intruders in close-quarters combat.
Savannah huddled on the floor of the closet, her hands clamped over her ears, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She remembered the night in San Diego. She remembered the feeling of utter helplessness. But this time, something inside her shifted. She wasn't the terrified art student who ran away on a bus. She was a woman who had survived four years of starvation, loan sharks, and loneliness.
She reached into the bedside drawer Roman had indicated, her trembling fingers wrapping around the cold, heavy steel of a compact 9mm pistol. She pulled it out, flicked off the safety with a practiced click she had learned watching Roman clean his weapons years ago, and pointed it toward the bedroom door.
Crank.
The bedroom door handle slowly turned.
A shadow fell across the threshold. A man in tactical black gear, his face obscured by a balaclava, stepped silently into the room, holding an assault rifle sweep-ready. He scanned the bed, then turned his head slowly toward the walk-in closet.
Savannah’s breath hitched. She tightened her finger on the trigger, her arms locked straight, aiming directly at the center of the intruder’s chest.
Before the man could raise his rifle toward the closet, a dark figure dropped from the ceiling rafters directly behind him.
It was Roman.
With brutal, terrifying efficiency, Roman wrapped his left arm around the intruder’s throat, twisting with a sickening crack that silenced the man instantly. The body slumped limply to the floor.
Roman stood over the corpse, breathing heavily, blood seeping through the bandages on his hand once more. He looked toward the closet, his eyes finding Savannah in the dim red emergency light.
Seeing her holding the weapon with a steady hand, a grim, approving nod crossed his face.
"Good girl," he whispered, gesturing for her to stay put as he kicked the door shut and secured the deadbolt. "They’re Chicago cleaners. Vanguard unit. That means Salvatore Caruso is personally overseeing this hit."
Savannah crawled out of the closet, her boots stepping over the edge of the rug as she walked up to Roman, ignoring the danger. "If Caruso is here in Virginia, he’s not hiding in Chicago anymore. He’s exposed himself."
May you like
Roman’s dark eyes flashed with sudden, brilliant realization. "Exactly. He didn't send a hit squad to kill us quietly. He sent a loud breach team to draw our entire security detail to the perimeter... so he could slip into our communications bunker."
Roman grabbed her by the arm, pulling her toward a hidden panel behind the study bookshelf. "Come on. We’re going hunting."
