Chapter 26 - BLOOD ON THE MONOGRAMMED GLASS
The lower gallery was bathed in the pale, milky light of dawn filtering through the shattered stained-glass windows.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a thick, suffocating fog that rolled off the Long Island Sound and snaked through the ruined French doors of the grand foyer. Glass crunched beneath heavy combat boots.
“Stack up on the grand staircase!” a harsh, gravelly voice barked in the shadows below. “Suppressors on. Thermal imaging shows one target on the second-floor mezzanine. The woman wants him neutralized before we blow the safe room door!”
Ethan didn't wait for them to ascend.
He leaned over the balustrade of the second floor, rifle raised, his red-dot optic locking onto the lead operator moving past the portrait of Ethan’s grandfather.
*Thump. Thump.*
Two suppressed rounds punched through the operator’s helmet. The man collapsed instantly without a sound, his carbine clattering against the marble floor.
“Contact! High ground! Mezzanine!”
The grand foyer erupted into chaos. High-velocity rounds chewed into the ornate mahogany banisters, sending splinters the size of daggers raining down into the parlor. Ethan dropped low, rolling across the Persian runner as a burst of 5.56 rounds tore through the plaster wall where his head had been a second prior.
He pulled a flashbang grenade from his vest, pulled the pin with his teeth, and tossed it down the central well of the double staircase.
*BANG.*
A blinding white flash illuminated the entire two-story foyer, accompanied by a concussive shockwave that shattered the remaining crystal pendants on the twelve-foot chandelier above. Cries of disoriented agony rose from the lower floor.
Ethan surged to his feet, leaning over the balcony edge, firing controlled, rhythmic pairs into the illuminated targets below.
One down. Two down. A third dropped behind the overturned grand piano.
These men were professionals, but they were fighting for a paycheck. Ethan Vance was fighting for the only thing that gave his fractured life meaning.
He moved down the west corridor like a phantom, utilizing the hidden service passageways built by his ancestors during Prohibition. He appeared behind two operators clearing the library, eliminating them with brutal, close-quarters efficiency before they could even pivot their barrels.
The manor smelled of cordite, blood, and ozone.
As Ethan stepped back into the central gallery, stepping over the fallen mercenaries, a single, sharp clap echoed from the balcony overlooking the formal ballroom.
Standing at the apex of the staircase, holding a silver-plated Walther PPK, was Elena.
Beside her stood a tall, silver-haired man in a bespoke three-piece suit, leaning on a silver-tipped cane, his eyes cold and ancient.
Ethan lowered his rifle slightly, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the face from the family portraits locked away in the estate archives.
“Uncle Charles,” Ethan said, his voice dripping with icy contempt. “I thought you died in Zurich twelve years ago.”
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“Reports of my demise were... commercially advantageous, nephew,” the old man smiled, his teeth yellowed like aged ivory. “Just as reports of Elena’s death were necessary to set this stage.”
***
