Chapter 6 - The Breach at Manchester
The old floral delivery van roared through the storm, its tires spraying sheets of water as Clara pushed the engine to its absolute limit along Route 128.
Her hands were shaking violently on the steering wheel. Rain slammed against the windshield so hard the wipers could barely clear the glass.
Fight, Clara. Think, she screamed at herself in her head.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and dialed Adrian’s private number.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Go to voicemail, his recorded voice echoed smoothly.
"Adrian!" Clara screamed into the microphone, her voice hysterically loud over the roar of the rain. "The guard named Miller is a traitor! Moretti’s men are inside your house right now! They’re going for Lily! Do not surrender at Pier 4! IT’S A TRAP!"
She slammed the phone onto the passenger seat and pushed the gas pedal straight to the floorboard.
Fifteen minutes later, the delivery van skidded off the main road, tearing down the dark pine-lined driveway of the Vale estate.
The iron gates were standing wide open.
Near the side entrance, a guard lay motionless in the mud—unconscious or dead. Beside the west wing entrance, a sleek black SUV sat idling in the dark, its headlights off.
Clara slammed her brakes, bringing the van to a halt behind the SUV. She grabbed her heavy iron shears from the passenger seat, slipped out into the freezing rain, and ran toward the open service entrance.
The inside of the mansion was terrifyingly quiet. The grand foyer was dark, lit only by the flashes of lightning outside the high glass windows.
Clara crept up the service stairs, her wet sneakers making a quiet squeak against the stone steps. Her heart was beating so hard she felt sick to her stomach.
When she reached the third floor landing, she saw Miller—the traitor security guard—standing outside Lily’s bedroom door, holding a suppressed pistol in his hand. Beside him was a heavy-set man in a dark rain jacket, holding a leather duffel bag.
"Hurry up," Miller hissed to the second man. "The boss wants the kid out of the house before Vale realizes Pier 4 is a ghost town."
"The kid’s locked in the bathroom," the second man grunted, picking up a crowbar. "I'm busting the lock now."
Inside the bedroom, a tiny, terrified shriek echoed through the door.
Lily.
A blind, explosive wave of pure maternal rage surged through Clara’s body. She didn't think about guns, she didn't think about death, and she didn't think about her own safety.
Clara stepped out of the dark hallway shadows, raised her heavy wicker flower basket high above her head, and hurled it with all her strength directly at Miller’s head!
CRASH!
The heavy wicker basket, packed with iron shears, heavy dirt pots, and shears, struck Miller squarely across the face! He let out a sharp cry of pain, stumbling backward, his gun flying from his hand and sliding across the polished floorboards.
The second man turned around in shock. "What the—"
Clara didn't give him a chance to recover. She lunged forward, grabbing a heavy brass floor lamp standing near the wall, and swung it like a baseball bat!
CLANG!
The heavy brass lamp struck the second man across his shoulder, knocking him into the drywall.
"RUN, LILY!" Clara screamed at the top of her lungs, throwing her body against the bathroom door. "LILY, RUN TO THE CONSERVATORY!"
The bathroom door clicked open. Lily tumbled out, tears streaming down her face, clutching her tiny plush rabbit.
"GO!" Clara yelled, kicking the second man in the shin as he tried to grab her leg.
Lily took off running down the corridor toward the west wing glass conservatory like a terrified rabbit.
Miller, his face dripping with blood from Clara’s basket strike, scrambled to his feet, his eyes burning with lethal fury. He grabbed Clara by her hair, pulling her head back violently, slamming her back against the wall.
"You meddling little bitch," Miller hissed, raising his heavy fist. "I’m going to enjoy snapping your neck."
He raised his hand to strike her.
Suddenly, the massive glass stained windows at the end of the grand hallway exploded inward in a shower of a thousand glittering shards!
A black tactical ropes descended from the sky.
A shadow burst through the shattered window frame like a demon unleashed from hell.
Adrian Vale hit the marble floor in a tight roll, brought his custom black pistol up in a fraction of a second, and fired twice!
THWIP! THWIP!
The suppressed gunshots were no louder than a cough.
Miller froze. Two neat holes appeared in his chest. He dropped Clara, falling backward onto the rug like a sack of stones, dead before he hit the floor.
The second man tried to raise his crowbar, but Adrian moved with terrifying, inhuman speed. He closed the distance in two strides, grabbed the man's wrist, snapped it cleanly with a sickening CRACK, and slammed the heavy butt of his pistol directly into the man's temple.
The intruder collapsed, unconscious.
The hallway fell into absolute, deafening silence, save for the sound of the rain pouring through the shattered window frame.
Adrian stood in the middle of the corridor, his tailored suit torn, his face covered in rain and shattered glass, his gun smoking in his hand. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wild with a lethal, desperate panic.
He looked at Clara, who was slumped against the wall, clutching her hair, gasping for air.
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"Clara..." Adrian choked out, his voice shaking violently.
He dropped his gun onto the rug. He rushed across the floor, dropped to his knees in front of her, and pulled her into his arms with a fierce, desperate intensity that knocked the wind out of her.
