Chapter 4 - The Iron Grid
The front doors of the Marlowe mansion bowed under the force of a hydraulic breacher.
With a deafening CRACK, the heavy carved oak doors burst inward, showering the marble foyer with splinters.
Julian Vance stepped over the threshold, his rifle raised, his boots crunching on glass. His ten tactical operatives filed in behind him in a tight wedge formation, scanning the grand staircase, the vaulted ceiling, and the dark hallways leading to the ballroom.
“Rowan!” Julian called out, his voice echoing off the marble walls. “The building is secure! Where is Marlowe?!”
Silence was his only answer.
Julian’s eyes narrowed. He raised his hand, signaling his men to hold. “Something’s wrong. The security feeds are dark, but there are no bodies.”
He tapped his ear communicator. “Team Two, report in. Is the rear perimeter secure?”
Static hummed in his ear.
“Team Two, report.”
Nothing.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic THUD echoed through the house.
Heavy, three-inch-thick solid steel blast shutters slammed down over every window and door on the ground floor, sealing the mansion shut like a subterranean vault.
The emergency red lighting kicked on, bathing the marble foyer in an eerie, blood-colored glow.
Julian spun around, aiming his rifle at the main entrance, but where the open driveway had been three seconds ago, there was now only a solid wall of reinforced steel.
“It’s a trap!” Julian yelled. “Breach the doors! Get the charges!”
From the top of the grand staircase, a shadow moved.
I stepped out onto the marble balcony overlooking the foyer, looking down at the eleven men trapped in my home. I wasn't wearing a tactical vest. I was still in my bespoke tuxedo, a glass of crystal tumbler in my left hand and my Kimber .45 in my right.
“Welcome to the Marlowe estate, Mr. Vance,” I spoke down to him, my voice echoing clearly through the vaulted space. “I trust your journey across the harbor was comfortable?”
Julian aimed his rifle directly at my chest. “Marlowe! You’re pinned in your own house! You have nowhere to run!”
“Run?” I chuckled softly, taking a slow sip of my drink. “Mr. Vance, you seem to misunderstand the geography of this building. You are not holding me hostage. You are standing in my kill box.”
Before Julian could pull the trigger, three hidden panels along the foyer ceiling slid open.
Pneumatic turrets mounted with non-lethal flash-incendiary devices lowered into view.
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
A blinding cascade of white light and thunderous shockwaves exploded through the foyer. The Moretti mercenaries screamed, dropping their weapons, clutching their eyes and ears as the concussive force tore through the enclosed marble space.
When the smoke cleared, five of Julian’s men were unconscious on the floor. The remaining five were pinned under heavy tactical fire from my security team positioning themselves along the upper balcony.
Julian Vance, bleeding from a cut along his forehead, scrambled behind a thick marble pillar, breathing heavily, his rifle out of ammunition.
I walked down the grand staircase, step by step, my polished leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone.
“Where is Leo Vance?” I asked, stopping at the bottom step, aiming my pistol at the pillar hiding Julian. “Give me his location, and I will let you walk out of this house alive.”
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From behind the pillar, Julian let out a raspy, blood-choked laugh.
“You’re too late, Marlowe!” Julian shouted. “Leo isn't in Chicago anymore! He’s on a container ship in international waters! In six hours, he’ll be sold into a forced labor camp in South America! You can kill me, but you’ll never see him again!”
