Chapter 7 - The Fog and the Fire
The electricity to the main house cut out at 3:15 AM.
Total darkness swallowed the manor, save for the blue-gray moonlight filtering through the tall Georgian windows and the dying embers in the hearth.
Rowan stood beside the heavy mahogany desk, her back against the oak wall, the Glock held in a low-ready position in her right hand. Her left arm was bound tightly to her chest by a dark sling Declan had fashioned from a silk scarf, keeping the fresh stitches immobilized.
The fever still burned in her blood, but the adrenaline had stripped away the haze. Her mind was a cold room with the doors locked.
Downstairs, the heavy oak doors of the scullery gave way with a muffled splinter of wood.
Silent. Professional. Vance’s hitmen weren't street thugs; they were former Eastern European private military contractors, paid top dollar to clean up loose ends without waking the neighbors.
Declan stood at the top of the sweeping spiral staircase, invisible in the shadows. He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
Two silhouettes slipped into the entrance hall below, their boots moving like smoke across the polished black-and-white marble. The red laser sights of their weapons painted the walls, searching the corners.
"Check the master bedroom," a voice whispered in Russian from below. "The girl first. The boss said make it clean, make it quiet."
Declan stepped out onto the landing.
He didn't speak. He simply leveled the Benelli M4 shotgun over the banister and fired.
The roar of the 12-gauge inside the enclosed stone foyer was deafening.
The first intruder was picked up and slammed through the glass doors of the conservatory behind him in a spray of blood and shattered crystal.
The second man reacted instantly, diving behind a marble pillar as a hail of 9mm automatic fire shredded the plaster molding around Declan’s head.
Rowan moved.
She rounded the corner of the mezzanine gallery, tracking the muzzle flash of the second shooter. Her breath caught as a spike of pain stabbed her wound, but her right arm remained locked, rigid, immovable.
She sighted the dark outline of the shooter’s shoulder protruding from behind the pillar.
*Breathe out.*
She squeezed the trigger twice.
*Crack. Crack.*
The shooter grunted, his rifle dropping from his hands as Rowan’s hollow points shattered his collarbone. Before he could draw his sidearm, Declan had already vaulted the railing, dropping ten feet to the marble floor like a panther, his combat knife flashing in the dim light.
There was a brief, violent scuffle—the sound of breaking cartilage, a stifled gasp—and then silence returned to the foyer.
Declan rose from the body, wiping his blade on the dead man's sleeve.
"That's two," Declan said, his voice undisturbed, as if he were counting yearling foals in a paddock.
"There were three on the infrared," Rowan called down, leaning over the rail, her vision swimming slightly from the exertion.
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"I know," Declan said, looking toward the open front doors that led out into the courtyard. "The third didn't come for the house. He went to the stables."
***
