Chapter 3 - Six Seconds to Impact
Physics, adrenaline, and years of muscle memory compressed time into a terrifying singularity.
Grace knew she had less than six seconds before the man drew his weapon and cleared the distance to the VIP section where Julian and Victoria stood.
She didn't calculate the social consequences. She didn't think about Victoria’s threats or losing her job. Her mind went back to a dusty mirror-walled studio in Bridgeport, Connecticut, where her father had taught her that speed was a matter of economy, and power was a matter of hips and core alignment.
Push off the left foot. Explode forward. Keep your center of gravity low.
As the man’s hand emerged from his jacket, clutching the matte-black barrel of a suppressed 9mm pistol, Grace crossed the polished marble floor like a sprinter bursting from starting blocks.
Gasps echoed through the ballroom. Several socialites shrieked, spilling champagne.
The man with the gray eyes—the fake caterer—whirled around, his eyes widening in shock as he realized a woman in a housemaid's uniform was flying directly toward him at full speed. He tried to adjust his aim, bringing the barrel up toward her chest.
Too late.
Grace planted her right foot, drove her left knee upward into her chest, and launched herself horizontally into the air.
Her body became a spinning blade.
Her right heel cracked against the assassin’s wrist with the sickening sound of snapping bone and cartilage.
The impact echoed across the vaulted ceiling of the ballroom, silencing the string quartet instantly.
The pistol spun out of the man’s paralyzed hand, clattering across the marble before disappearing beneath a heavy mahogany banquet table draped in white linen.
The momentum of Grace’s kick carried her forward, her shoulder slamming into the attacker’s chest. The heavy-set man crashed backward with a violent thud, careening directly into a towering, seven-tier champagne pyramid.
Glasses shattered in a cascading explosion of crystal and sparkling wine. Hundreds of flutes collapsed in a watery avalanche, burying the assassin beneath a mountain of broken glass and sticky alcohol.
Grace landed in a crouch, her breathing heavy, her hands braced on the floor. She rolled smoothly to her feet, her eyes scanning the room for secondary threats, her posture defensive and lethal.
The ballroom was locked in an absolute, suffocating silence.
Two hundred of the wealthiest people in America stared at the housekeeper standing over a groaning, champagne-drenched assassin.
Then, a voice broke the stillness. It wasn't Julian. It wasn't a panicked guest.
It was Victoria.
Standing beside Julian, her face completely drained of color, her eyes wide with sheer horror, Victoria whispered a single name before anyone else in the mansion even knew who the man was.
"Damon?"
Julian Mercer heard her.
So did Grace.
Julian slowly turned his head to look at his fiancée, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous, unblinking slits.
"You know him?" Julian asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Victoria stammered, stepping backward, her hands trembling as she clutched her silver gown. "No! I... I didn't say anything! I said... I said demon! Because he's crazy!"
"You said Damon," Julian corrected, stepping toward her with an intensity that made several senators step back. "Damon Vance. The son of the man who tried to bankrupt my shipping firm five years ago. And the man who currently has an international warrant out for corporate sabotage."
Before Victoria could answer, the assassin—Damon—pushed himself up from the wreckage of the champagne tower, coughing up wine, blood dripping from his broken wrist. He glared at Victoria with undisguised hatred.
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"You told me Julian would be in the study," Damon snarled, pointing a bloody finger at her. "You said the safe code was on his desk! You're the one who set this up, Victoria!"
The ballroom erupted into absolute pandemonium.
