Chapter 5 - Blood on the Marble
The wood floor burned against Arthur’s ribs as he scrambled through the acrid haze of gun smoke.
Bullets chipped the floorboards inches from his heels, throwing biting lacquer shards into his face.
His hand closed around the textured rubber grip of the dropped tactical shotgun.
He didn't know how to clear a room.
He had never served in the military or spent a day in law enforcement.
What he did have were summers spent skeet shooting at the family’s estate in the Adirondacks since he was twelve years old.
Arthur rolled onto his back, racked the heavy slide with a mechanical clatter, and brought the barrel up.
The second mercenary was stepping out from behind the sofa, preparing to flank Thorne’s position behind the desk.
Arthur pulled the trigger.
The blast of twelve-gauge buckshot in the enclosed library sounded like a thunderclap inside a tomb.
The heavy spread caught the operative squarely in the chest, shredding his tactical vest and launching him backward over the sofa in a lifeless heap.
The recoil slammed Arthur’s shoulder hard against the hardwood, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his collarbone.
He didn't care.
The adrenaline coursing through his veins was ice-cold.
"Move! Now!" Thorne shouted, emerging from behind the barricade with Eleanor’s wheelchair.
Arthur scrambled to his feet, racking another shell into the chamber with a savage, steady motion.
They surged toward the private study at the rear of the library, Thorne guiding the wheelchair while Arthur covered their rear with the smoking shotgun.
They breached the study door and locked it behind them.
In the corner stood the hidden panel for the antique service elevator, concealed behind an ornamental tapestry.
Thorne tore the fabric down, punching the call button with her bruised knuckles.
The ancient iron cage rattled into view behind the brass scissor gate.
"Get her in," Thorne ordered.
Arthur helped roll Eleanor into the narrow iron elevator.
"You're coming with us," Arthur said, looking at Thorne.
"I need to buy you two minutes to reach the subterranean tunnel," Thorne said, pulling an extra magazine from her tactical belt. "If Kaelen reaches the main courtyard with the perimeter compromised, she has an armored SUV waiting."
"She's not getting to the courtyard," Arthur said, his jaw locked tight. "I know this house better than she does. The elevator doesn't just go to the cellar. It has an override stop at the mezzanine armory."
Thorne stared at him, recalculating her estimation of the young heir.
"Your family kept an armory in the residential wing?" she asked.
"My great-grandfather was an eccentric paranoiac who built rum-running tunnels in the twenties," Arthur replied cold. "There are three bolt-action rifles and two cases of high-grade hunting ammunition on the second floor."
Before Thorne could respond, the heavy study door began to shudder under a sledgehammer assault from the outside.
Kaelen’s voice rose above the banging, harsh and mocking.
"Arthur! You're breaking my heart, darling!" she screamed through the wood. "I picked out the flowers! I wore the dress! The least you can do is come out and kiss your bride goodbye!"
Arthur stepped into the elevator cage beside his grandmother and grabbed the iron gate.
He looked Thorne dead in the eye.
"Take grandmother to the armory stop," Arthur commanded, stepping back out into the study with the shotgun.
"Arthur, don't be a fool!" Eleanor gasped, reaching for his tuxedo jacket.
"You said it yourself, Grandmother," Arthur said, his voice entirely steady, stripped of all fear. "I was soft. I was weak. But this monster didn't just target a bank account. She murdered my father, desecrated his memory, and tried to strangle you in front of our ancestors."
He pushed the elevator button, sending the cage ascending with a mechanical whine.
"Arthur!" Thorne called out as the floor began to lift away.
"Get her to safety, Thorne," Arthur said, not looking back. "I'll make sure the bride stays for the reception."
Arthur turned back to face the splintering study door.
The heavy wood cracked down the center as a steel crowbar wedged through the gap.
Arthur stepped back, took a deep breath, and leveled the twelve-gauge directly at the center panel.
"Let's dance, Isabella," he whispered.
He pulled the trigger twice.
The double blast obliterated the center of the door, blowing the wood apart in a hail of splinters.
A muffled shriek of pain echoed from the other side, followed by a heavy body hitting the floor.
Arthur kicked the remaining shards of the door open, stepping into the ruined library with smoke curling from the barrel.
Lying on the floor was one of Kaelen’s remaining mercenaries, clutching a shredded leg.
Arthur stepped past him without a word, kicking the man's dropped handgun across the floor.
He walked into the grand corridor, his polished dress shoes crunching over broken glass and fallen plaster.
At the far end of the hallway, bathed in the flashing crimson emergency lights, stood Kaelen Vance.
She had abandoned the ruined lace skirts, having sliced the heavy fabric away with a combat knife to leave only the white silk bodice and black tactical trousers she had concealed beneath.
In her right hand, she held a sleek, suppressed automatic pistol.
In her left, she held the fifty-carat Hawthorne Star, the blue sapphire reflecting the pulsing red lights like an evil, beating heart.
She looked at Arthur, her scarred face twisting into a mocking grin.
"Look at you," she sneered, raising her weapon. "The little prince found his courage."
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"Drop the gun, Kaelen," Arthur said, raising the shotgun. "Or I swear to God, they won't even find enough of you to bury."
***
