Chapter 4 - Breach at Winnetka
The lights in the mansion flickered once, twice, and then died completely, plunging the expansive study into deep, velvety darkness save for the dying embers in the stone fireplace.
Outside, the distant pop of a silenced gunshot cracked through the howling wind off Lake Michigan, followed immediately by the dull, rhythmic thud of heavy boots pounding against the marble flooring in the East Wing.
"They bypassed the primary grid," Franco muttered, his voice coming from somewhere near the double doors. He had killed the floor lamp beside him, leaving only the amber glow of the fire to paint long, distorted shadows across the bookshelves. "It’s an internal override. Someone on the domestic staff gave them the access codes."
Gabriel didn't turn around. He stood beside me near the edge of the massive mahogany desk, his Glock raised, his body a solid wall of black wool and lethal intent.
"How many?" Gabriel asked quietly.
"At least six," Franco replied. "Professional hitters. They aren't shouting commands. They're clearing rooms systematically."
My pulse thrummed in my ears, drowning out the roar of the wind outside. For three years, I had lived a quiet, predictable life in Seattle—managing a mid-sized architectural firm, drinking lattes, and pretending I was just an ordinary corporate employee who had left her complicated past behind. But the moment the metal of the Glock warmed against my palm, the old instincts woke up. The paranoia, the hyper-awareness, the calculation of angles and cover—it all came flooding back as if I had never left my father’s basement training room.
Click.
The doorknob of the study turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
Franco raised his weapon, lining up his sights on the center of the oak paneling.
The door swung inward, revealing a sliver of the dark hallway illuminated only by the faint red glow of an emergency exit sign. A gloved hand reached inside, holding a suppressed assault rifle, sweeping the threshold.
Gabriel didn't wait.
Bang. Bang.
Two deafening gunshots tore through the silence of the study, the muzzle flash painting Gabriel’s face in stark, violent relief. The man in the doorway collapsed instantly, crashing hard against the polished hardwood floor outside.
"Moving in!" a harsh voice shouted from the corridor.
Hell broke loose.
Automatic gunfire chewed through the wooden door and the surrounding drywall, sending a lethal storm of splinters and lead ricocheting across the room. I dropped instantly into a low crouch behind the heavy oak desk, pulling the Glock tight against my chest. Dust and plaster rained down over my hair.
"Lauren! Stay down!" Gabriel yelled over the deafening racket, firing three controlled shots through the shredded remains of the doorway.
A masked figure lunged into the room, stepping over the body of his fallen comrade. Franco caught him square in the chest with a single, devastating round that sent the intruder crashing backward into the bookshelves, bringing down a cascade of heavy volumes.
Before Franco could cycle his slide, another attacker appeared in the doorway, raising his rifle directly toward Franco’s blind spot.
Without thinking, I rose from behind the desk, raised my Glock with both hands, squared my breathing just as my father had taught us on cold winter mornings in Boston, and squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
The bullet caught the third intruder in the shoulder, spinning him off balance. Before he could recover, Gabriel’s second shot finished the job.
Silence descended upon the study almost as quickly as the violence had begun. The only sounds left were the crackling of the fire, the heavy, ragged breathing of four survivors, and the slow, ominous drip of blood pooling onto the hardwood floor in the hallway.
Gabriel lowered his weapon, his dark eyes snapping immediately toward me. He scanned my body from head to toe, searching for blood, searching for injury.
May you like
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his voice rough with adrenaline.
"I'm fine," I breathed, lowering the slide of my gun, my hands only beginning to shake now that the immediate threat had passed. I looked down at the smoking barrel of the weapon, a cold realization washing over me. "They didn't come to assassinate you, Gabriel. They came to finish what they started with Natalie. They came for me."
