Chapter 6 - The Siege of the North Estate
"Offline?!" Emma shrieked, grabbing Grant’s arm violently. "What do you mean offline?! Is he hit?! Is he alive?!"
"I don't know!" Grant yelled back, tapping his screen frantically as red warning lights flashed across his tactical display. "The entire Detroit frequency is jammed! Lucchesi brought heavy military-grade signal disruptors into the city center! My team in Detroit isn't responding!"
"We have to go to Detroit!" Emma declared, her maternal and protective instincts completely overriding her fear.
"No!" Grant ordered sharply, grabbing her shoulders to hold her steady. "Vincent’s explicit instructions were to keep you here! If Detroit has fallen, Lucchesi’s next move will be to wipe out this estate to ensure the bloodline ends today!"
Right on cue, a deep, earth-shaking explosion detonated at the outer perimeter gates half a mile down the mountain.
BOOM!
The heavy glass windows of the lodge rattled violently in their frames. The emergency red lights along the timber ceiling flickered on, casting blood-red shadows across the room.
Over the perimeter radio, frantic shouting broke through the static:
"CONTACT! WE HAVE HEAVY CONTACT AT GATE ONE! FOUR ARMORED TECHNICALS! THEY’RE USING ROCKET-PROPELLED GRENADES! THEY’RE THROUGH THE OUTER LINE!"
"Mrs. Doyle, take Emma to the central vault under the wine cellar now!" Grant shouted, drawing two black handguns from his shoulder holsters.
"Grant!" Emma cried out as two security guards rushed toward the front entrance with assault rifles.
"Get down there, Emma!" Grant barked over the sound of automatic gunfire beginning to echo outside in the snow. "Protect the baby!"
Mrs. Doyle grabbed Emma’s wrist with surprising strength, dragging her through the kitchen and down a narrow spiral staircase into the stone wine cellar beneath the lodge.
The subterranean level was cold, smelling of ancient oak barrels and earth. At the far end stood a massive steel vault door equipped with an electronic keypad and a manual wheel lock.
Mrs. Doyle punched in a six-digit code. The heavy hydraulic pins retracted with a loud HISS.
She pushed Emma inside the brightly lit, climate-controlled vault.
"Stay inside, child," Mrs. Doyle urged, placing her hands on Emma’s face. "The steel is six inches thick. Nothing short of a bunker-buster bomb can break this door."
"You're coming inside with me!" Emma insisted, grabbing the older woman’s apron.
"Someone has to lock the wheel from the outside to engage the mechanical seals," Mrs. Doyle smiled sadly, tears glistening in her eyes. "I’ve lived my life, Emma. Yours is just beginning. Give Vincent a son."
Before Emma could protest, Mrs. Doyle pulled the heavy steel door shut from the outside.
CLANK!
The heavy manual wheel turned, locking Emma inside the silent, brightly lit sanctuary.
Emma fell back against the padded wall of the vault, her hands clutching her belly, her breathing fast and ragged. Inside the silent vault, the sounds of the battle above were muffled, coming through as low, rhythmic thuds that vibrated through the concrete floor.
Minutes felt like eternity.
One hour passed.
Then two.
The muffled thuds above slowly subsided, replaced by an agonizing, total silence.
Emma sat on the floor, holding her knees to her chest, her thumb tracing the smooth platinum wedding band on her finger. She thought of Vincent—his dark eyes, his quiet kindness, his scarred neck, the warmth of his bare hand wiping her tear away in the study.
"Please, God," Emma whispered into the quiet vault, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. "Don't let him die. Don't let my baby grow up without knowing his father."
Suddenly, the heavy hydraulic system on the vault door hissed.
PSSSHHHH.
The mechanical wheel outside began to turn slowly.
CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.
Emma froze. Her heart slammed against her throat.
Was it Grant?
Was it Mrs. Doyle?
Or was it Lucchesi’s hitmen coming to finish the job?
Emma reached around the floor, her hand finding a heavy steel fire extinguisher resting near the emergency medical kit. She hoisted it into her arms, standing near the opening seam of the door, her muscles tense, her jaw set with terrifying maternal rage.
The heavy door slowly swung open.
A tall figure stepped into the light.
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He was drenched in blood, snow, and soot. His coat was shredded at the waist, a bloody bandage wrapped tightly around his left thigh. In his right hand, he carried a heavy, empty assault rifle, his breathing coming in deep, ragged gasps.
It was Vincent.
