The velvet darkness of my study offered no comfort, only a suffocating stillness broken by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

The heavy oak front doors of my mansion were splintered, hanging off their iron hinges. The smell of cordite and burning drywall hung thick in the grand foyer.

I stepped over the threshold, moving low and silent, my boots making no sound on the white marble floor. My blood ran cold at the sight of my head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, lying near the grand staircase, her apron stained with blood.

I sprinted to her side, dropping to one knee. I checked her pulse—weak, but steady. She had been struck in the head with the butt of a rifle, not shot.

"Mrs. Gable," I whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. "Mrs. Gable, where are the children?"

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy with pain and confusion. "Mr... Mr. Andrew," she sobbed softly, clutching my sleeve. "Men with masks... they came through the kitchen. I hid Sophie in the panic room... under the library... but they took the babies... they took the strollers..."

"How many?" I demanded, my teeth grinding together.

"Four... maybe five," she gasped. "They went toward the rear terrace... a helicopter..."

I stood up, the icy calm of a killer settling over me.

They hadn't come to slaughter; they had come to harvest hostages. Victor’s crew knew that holding Mason and Noah gave them complete leverage over Julian, while holding Sophie gave them leverage over me.

I sprinted down the long eastern corridor toward the library. The heavy mahogany bookshelf that concealed the entrance to my private panic room had been yanked open, its hydraulic locks forced by heavy tools.

"Sophie!" I called out, stepping into the dim, reinforced steel room.

A small squeak came from behind a stack of Kevlar vests in the corner.

Sophie crept out, holding a heavy iron candlestick like a club, her small body trembling violently. Tears had dragged clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks, but she hadn't made a sound.

When she saw me, she dropped the candlestick and threw her tiny arms around my waist, sobbing hysterically into my blood-stained coat.

"Mr. Andrew! They took Mason and Noah! They took them in their plastic baskets!" she wailed. "I tried to hit them, but the bad man pushed me!"

I lifted her up, pressing her small head against my neck, feeling her heart hammering like a trapped bird's.

"I know, sweetie. I know," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "You were so brave, Sophie. You stayed quiet just like a big sister should. I am going to get your brothers back. I promise you on my life."

"Where is Victor?" she sobbed. "Victor was outside... he didn't stop them!"

"Victor won't ever hurt anyone again," I told her firmly.

I carried her to the hidden communication console inside the panic room and locked the steel door from the inside, leaving her with an emergency radio linked directly to Detective Kane’s frequency.

"Stay inside this room, Sophie. Do not open this door for anyone except the man named Detective Kane. He wears a blue suit and a silver badge. Do you understand?"

She nodded, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "Are you going to bring Mommy and my brothers back?"

"Yes," I promised. "I am."

I locked the panic room door, stepped back into the library, and locked and loaded my tactical rifle from the wall safe.

A low, rhythmic thumping began to vibrate through the floorboards—the sound of heavy helicopter rotors spinning up from the sprawling lawn at the rear of my ten-acre estate.

They were trying to airlift the infants out before the police arrived.

I sprinted down the rear hallway, kicking open the double glass doors leading to the stone terrace.

The scene on the lower lawn was chaotic. A black, unmarked Bell 407 helicopter sat idling on the grass, its rotors whipping the manicured lawn into a frenzy of flying dirt and leaves. Two masked men in tactical gear were securing two plastic infant car seats into the rear cabin. A third man stood guard at the base of the helicopter, holding an automatic weapon.

And standing near the edge of the tree line, his hands zip-tied behind his back, was a man with ragged graying hair, wearing a worn canvas jacket.

Julian Vance.

He had been captured at the rendezvous point and brought here to witness his family's destruction.

"Julian!" I roared over the deafening noise of the rotor blades, stepping out onto the terrace with my rifle raised.

Julian turned his head sharply. His eyes, sunken and tired, widened in shock as he saw me standing there—alive, armed, and furious.

The guard at the base of the helicopter swung his weapon toward me.

I didn't give him the chance to fire. I squeezed the trigger of my rifle, a three-round burst tearing through his chest plate. He collapsed instantly onto the grass.

The two men inside the cabin panicked. One of them grabbed a heavy submachine gun, ducking behind the open door of the helicopter to return fire. Bullets tore into the stone balustrade of the terrace around me, spraying sharp shards of masonry across my face.

"Andrew!" Julian screamed, throwing his weight against the second guard standing beside him, knocking the man off balance into the dirt. "The babies are in the back!"

I vaulted over the terrace railing, leaping six feet down onto the lawn, and advanced through the flying debris toward the aircraft.

In the distance, the wail of police sirens began to echo through the quiet streets of River Hills. SWAT was two minutes away.

The pilot of the helicopter, realizing the operation was blown, began to increase throttle. The aircraft started to lift off the ground, its skids hovering three feet above the grass.

The gunman in the cabin reached out, trying to slide the heavy side door shut with Mason and Noah inside.

I sprinted through the blinding downwash of the rotors, raised my rifle, and fired through the cockpit glass. The pilot slumped forward over the controls.

The helicopter listed wildly to the left, its tail rotor clipping the high branch of an oak tree with a deafening screech of tearing metal. The aircraft slammed back down onto the turf, tilting violently onto its side as the main rotors shattered against the ground, spraying lethal fragments of carbon fiber in every direction.