Chapter 6 - The Siege of the West Wing
Inside the main house, the afternoon was quiet.
Tommy was sitting on the rug in the main library, happily coloring in a large picture book, while Mrs. Reynolds prepared afternoon tea in the kitchen.
Richard was in his private study on the second floor, conducting an international conference call with his board of directors in London.
Sarah walked down the long, mahogany-paneled hallway of the west wing, carrying a stack of fresh towels toward the guest suite.
As she passed the service staircase near the back garden entrance, she stopped.
A faint, cold draft was blowing into the hall.
Sarah set the towels down on a side table, her body instantly shifting into high alert. The estate was fully climate-controlled; there should not be a draft coming from the service stairs.
She crept quietly toward the heavy oak door that led down to the garden basement.
The door was slightly ajar.
On the polished floorboards near the doorframe was a smudge of wet, muddy grease—the unmistakable tread mark of a heavy work boot.
Sarah’s heart plummeted into a pit of sheer, icy terror. She knew that tread. She had cleaned that mud off her stepfather's boots for four agonizing years.
Marcus was inside the house.
Sarah didn't scream. She didn't freeze. Her instincts—sharpened by years of brutal survival—took over instantly.
She turned on her heel and sprinted down the hallway toward the library where Tommy was playing.
"Tommy!" Sarah gasped, bursting through the double doors of the library.
Tommy looked up, startled by the sheer panic in his sister's voice. "Sarah? What's wrong?"
Sarah grabbed Tommy’s arm, pulling him off the rug with incredible force. "Don't ask questions, Tommy! We have to go right now!"
Before they could reach the library exit, the heavy wooden doors swung open with a violent, thunderous crash.
Standing in the doorway was Marcus Vance. His clothes were covered in mud, his face contorted into a terrifying, demonic sneer, a heavy iron crowbar gripped tightly in his right hand.
"Found you, you little rats!" Marcus roared, stepping into the room and slamming the doors shut behind him.
Tommy let out a high-pitched, piercing shriek, scrambling behind Sarah’s back.
Sarah stood her ground, her small body shaking violently, but her arms spread wide, completely shielding her brother.
"Stay away from him, Marcus!" Sarah screamed, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Stay away!"
"You ruined everything, Sarah!" Marcus hissed, taking a slow, menacing step forward. "You dragged us into this! You called the cops on me! You think this rich man owns you now?! You belong to me! Both of you!"
"We don't belong to anyone!" Sarah yelled, grabbing a heavy brass bookend from a nearby table and holding it up like a weapon. "If you take one more step, I'll kill you!"
Marcus let out a cruel, booming laugh, raising the iron crowbar. "You're a twelve-year-old girl, Sarah. You ain't gonna do nothing."
He lunged forward, reaching his large, filthy hand out to grab Tommy's collar.
Sarah screamed, swinging the heavy brass bookend with all her strength. It struck Marcus across his cheekbone, cutting a deep gash across his face and sending a spray of blood across the carpet.
Marcus stumbled back, roaring in pain and fury, clutching his bleeding face.
"You little bitch!" Marcus growled, his yellow eyes wild with murderous rage. He raised the crowbar high over his head, preparing to strike Sarah down.
"MARCUS!" a voice thundered through the room like a crack of lightning.
Marcus turned his head sharply.
Standing near the library balcony was Richard Anderson.
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His face was completely devoid of emotion—a mask of absolute, terrifying fury. In his right hand, held with steady, military precision, was a sleek silver sidearm.
"Drop the weapon," Richard commanded, his voice cold, steady, and utterly lethal. "Drop it now, or I will end you where you stand."
