Chapter 5 - The Sniper’s Nest
Two weeks passed before the east wing saw Dante again.
During that time, life settled into an uneasy, heightened equilibrium. The kids were happier—they actually laughed out loud on Tuesday mornings when Clara chased them around the maze garden in the crisp autumn air. Mrs. Higgins was slightly less terrifying, occasionally offering Clara fresh pastries from the downtown bakeries.
And Clara found herself listening for the sound of the black Escalade every night at midnight.
She hated herself for it. He was a criminal, a dangerous man surrounded by violence, a father who chose exile from his own children to keep them out of the crossfire.
Yet, as she stitched his wound that night, she had seen past the armor.
Then came December first, and the illusion of safety shattered into a million pieces of safety glass.
It was a Saturday afternoon. The trees on the Barrington Hills estate were skeletal black fingers against a bruised, gray sky. Snow was beginning to swirl in thin, erratic gusts across the lawn.
Clara was in the sunroom with Toby and Bella, helping them paint ceramic ornaments for their Christmas tree, when the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall flew open.
Sal Ruso, Dante’s second-in-command—a man with a nose that looked like it had been broken twice and eyes like chips of flint—strode into the room. His hand was resting casually inside his jacket, right over his holster.
“Miss Mitchell,” Sal said, his voice clipped and urgent. “Pack a bag. Now.”
Clara dropped her paintbrush, water splashing across the table. “What? Why?”
“Perimeter breach,” Sal said, not wasting a syllable. “Professional grade. Sniper rifle sighted on the north ridge by the automated turret cameras. Mr. Calveti wants you and the kids in the reinforced basement safe room immediately.”
Toby dropped his paintbrush, his small face turning pale. “Is it the men from the docks?”
“Toby, don't ask questions, just move,” Sal commanded, stepping forward to scoop Bella up into his arms.
Before Clara could grab her tote bag, a concussive CRACK echoed across the estate—so loud, so violent, that the sunroom’s leaded glass windows rattled in their frames.
Glass exploded inward.
A high-caliber round smashed through the double-paned window, tearing a smoking, jagged hole in the wall three inches from Clara’s head before embedding itself in the oak bookshelf behind her with a sickening thud.
“DOWN!” Sal roared, dropping to the floor and shielding Bella with his entire body.
“Toby! Under the table!” Clara screamed.
She lunged across the craft table, grabbing Toby by the collar of his sweater and dragging him down onto the floor just as a second round chewed through the wooden tabletop, sending splinters flying like shrapnel.
Sirens began to wail across the estate—a deafening, high-pitched Klaxon designed to alert the internal security detail.
“Sal, take the kids through the sub-floor tunnel to the west wing!” Clara yelled over the screaming alarms, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped sledgehammer.
“Mr. Calveti said everyone to the bunker—!”
“There’s no time, the sniper has a clear angle on the main corridor!” Clara shouted, her eyes darting to the shattered window. The wind was howling through the gap, carrying the smell of cordite. “Take them through the servants’ stairs now!”
Sal hesitated for a single, agonizing microsecond, then nodded sharply. He hauled Bella up into his arms and grabbed Toby by the hand. “Move! Stay low!”
They vanished down the narrow service corridor toward the kitchens.
Clara was left alone in the sunroom.
She crouched behind the heavy oak craft table, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely close her fingers.
Get out. Go to the safe room, a voice in her head screamed.
Instead, she looked at the shattered window.
The north ridge.
The old conservatory tower on the far edge of the estate sat three hundred yards away, overlooking the sunroom at a slightly elevated angle. It was the only high ground within range.
And right now, whoever was holding that Barrett .50 caliber rifle was lining up their next shot.
Clara’s mind flashed to the children running down the service stairs. If the sniper shifted his aim just six feet to the left, the rounds would penetrate the interior drywall of the hallway like paper.
She didn't think. She didn't calculate the odds.
She slipped out from behind the table, dropped to her hands and knees, and scrambled across the glass-strewn floor toward the heavy oak doors leading to the central hall.
Her heart was a drum solo of pure terror.
She reached the hallway, hauled herself to her feet, and sprinted—not toward the basement bunker, not toward safety—but toward the grand staircase leading up to the second-floor service bridge that connected the east wing to the old conservatory tower.
If she could trip the security alarm panel inside the tower guard post, she could lock the emergency blast shutters over the sunroom windows and buy Sal and the kids enough time to reach the bunker.
It was insane. It was suicidal.
It was the only play on the board.
As she burst through the heavy double doors onto the second-floor bridge, a third gunshot cracked through the estate.
The bullet didn't hit glass this time.
It hit the heavy oak doorframe two inches to her right, spraying wood splinters into the side of her face. A sharp, burning pain flared along her cheekbone.
May you like
Clara stumbled, gasping for breath, tasting copper and dust.
She didn't stop. She pressed her hand against her bleeding cheek, rounded the corner into the conservatory tower, and threw herself against the heavy steel security console.
