Chapter 9 - Total War
The gala was in full swing when the sprinklers hissed to life. It wasn't water. It was a thick, industrial-grade fire-suppressant foam that filled the air in seconds, creating a blinding, white fog. Screams erupted as the guests scrambled for the exits, but Beatrice moved against the flow.
She wore a pair of night-vision goggles she had swiped from a maintenance cart. To her, the room was crystal clear. She watched as Lucas and three men in tailored suits stood by the vault, clutching a drive. They were panicked, firing blindly into the foam.
"Where is she?" Lucas screamed, his voice raw. "I know you're here, you old hag!"
Beatrice emerged from the white fog like a ghost. She moved with a lethal grace that silenced the room. She swept the legs of the first man, knocking him to the floor before he could squeeze the trigger. She grabbed the second man's wrist, twisting it until the bone snapped, and slammed his head against the marble pedestal of a Roman bust.
Lucas turned, his eyes wild. He swung a pistol toward her, but Beatrice was already inside his guard. She grabbed his arm, pivoted, and threw him over her shoulder. He hit the ground hard, the drive skidding across the floor toward the center of the room.
"You think you’ve won?" Lucas wheezed, scrambling to stand. "This is just business! You’re nobody!"
"I'm the one who raised your wife," Beatrice said, her voice cold and devoid of pity. "And I'm the one who's ending your career."
She picked up the drive, but as she did, the museum's tactical security team—the Syndicate's private mercenaries—burst through the doors, their flashlights cutting through the foam. The standoff was absolute. Beatrice held the drive, but she was surrounded by a dozen armed men.
"Kill her," Lucas commanded, wiping blood from his lip. "Burn the whole place down if you have to."
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But then, a different sound pierced the air. The heavy thud of boots. Not the mercenaries, but the tactical team Beatrice had summoned. The walls seemed to explode as federal agents and her old contacts breached the skylights, rappelling down like spiders.
The chaos was surgical. In under sixty seconds, the mercenaries were disarmed, zip-tied, and pinned to the floor.
