Chapter 7 - The Lion in the Dark
The grand hallway of the Cross Estate was plunged into pitch-black darkness as Vance cut the main power grid from the basement sub-station.
Red emergency backup lights flickered to life along the baseboards, casting long, bloody shadows across the oil paintings and marble statues lining the corridor.
Outside, thunder crashed violently, shaking the heavy foundation of the mansion.
Frank Sterling stood near the grand staircase on the second floor, listening to the rapid gunfire echoing from the East Wing. His heart was hammering against his ribs in sudden, wild panic.
Shotgun fire? Frank thought, his face draining of color. Moretti’s team doesn't carry shotguns. That’s Damian’s signature weapon.
“Kovak!” Frank screamed into his tactical headset. “What is happening down there? Report!”
Static crackled over the earpiece, followed by Kovak’s terrified, gasping voice: “He’s here! Damian is in the house! The dock hit failed! We’re getting wiped out—”
A wet thud echoed over the radio, followed by complete silence.
Frank staggered back against the mahogany railing, his hands shaking violently as he pulled his secondary weapon.
Damian was alive. The trap at Pier 42 had been a decoy.
Down in the subterranean wine cellar, the heavy steel fallout door clicked shut with a deep, hydraulic thud.
Damian turned the mechanical combination dial three times to the right, sealing Hannah and Ellie inside the air-conditioned, bulletproof panic shelter.
Through the reinforced viewing glass, Ellie looked out at Damian. She wasn't crying. She held her stuffed bear against her chest and raised her tiny hand, performing Lily’s secret sign—the thumb touching the wrist, fingers curled over the heart.
Damian smiled faintly, returning the sign through the bulletproof glass.
“Stay safe, little detective,” Damian whispered.
He turned around, his face hardening into an expression of unadulterated, lethal vengeance. He drew his twin suppressed nine-millimeter sidearms, checked the sights in the dim red emergency light, and began his ascent back into the main house.
The remaining fourteen Moretti mercenaries were scattered throughout the ground floor, panicked, confused, and moving blindly through the dark corridors.
Damian moved through his own home like a ghost. He knew every creaking floorboard, every hidden service passage, every shadow created by the moonlight filtering through the high arch windows.
In the formal dining room, three mercenaries moved in a tight tactical V-formation, their weapon flashlights sweeping across the long mahogany table.
Damian stepped out from behind a heavy velvet curtain directly behind the rear man.
SPLAT.
A single suppressed round dropped the rear guard instantly without a sound.
Before the other two could turn around, Damian closed the distance, grabbing the second man’s weapon, twisting it upward, and driving a combat knife deep beneath his ribs. He caught the falling body before it hit the floor, spun, and put two rounds through the chest of the third mercenary as he raised his rifle.
Three men down in six seconds.
Damian reloaded with smooth, practiced speed, stepping over the fallen men, tracking the bloody boot prints leading up the grand marble staircase toward his private study.
Upstairs, Frank Sterling was frantically pulling hard drives from Damian’s master server, stuffing them into a leather duffel bag. His forehead was soaked in cold sweat, his breath ragged.
“Come on... come on...” Frank muttered to himself, his fingers trembling as he tried to disconnect the main encryption box.
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A calm, deep voice echoed from the doorway behind him, cutting through the sound of the falling rain outside.
“Looking for something, Frank?”
