Chapter 17 - THE BREACH
The knock wasn't a request for entry; it was a physical threat. The wood around the deadbolt splintered instantly as a heavy boot slammed into the center of the door, shattering the latch and sending the door flying inward against the interior wall.
Elena stood her ground in the center of the living room, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, her hands trembling as she held a heavy iron skillet like a shield. "Get out of my house! I'm calling the police!"
A tall man stepped into the dim light of the apartment, his face half-concealed by a tactical balaclava. His eyes were cold, dead things that swept the room in a fraction of a second, ignoring Elena entirely as his gaze locked onto the small table where the silver coin had rested only moments before. The indentation in the wooden surface was still warm, but the coin was gone.
"Where is the girl?" the operative demanded, his voice a flat, mechanical rasp that carried no human emotion. "And where is the old man's token?"
"I don't know what you're talking about! Get out!" Elena screamed, swinging the skillet with all her strength.
The operative didn't even flinch. With blinding speed, he sidestepped the blow, caught Elena by the wrist with iron strength, and twisted her arm behind her back with a sickening crunch of resistance. She cried out in pain, dropping the skillet as she was slammed against the kitchen counter.
"Let her go."
The voice came from the darkened hallway, small and clear, cutting through the tension of the room like a razor blade.
The operative paused, turning his head slowly toward the source of the sound. Standing at the entrance of the hallway was Marisol. She was clutching a worn teddy bear in one hand, her other hand tightly clenched in her jacket pocket, her knuckles white around the heavy silver coin she had refused to leave behind.
The operative released Elena, who collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. He took two slow steps toward the little girl, a cruel, predatory smile curving the visible part of his mouth. "Well, well. Persistence isn't always a virtue, little girl. Hand over the coin, and nobody else gets hurt."
Marisol didn't back down. She planted her feet firmly on the linoleum floor, her chin held high in a gesture that bore an uncanny resemblance to the general she had met in the rain. "My Mamá said never talk to bullies. And you're the biggest bully I've ever seen."
The operative’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He reached out a gloved hand, lunging forward to grab her—
*CRASH!*
The window behind the kitchen shattered into a thousand glittering shards as a dark figure vaulted through the frame, clearing the glass with the explosive grace of a falling meteor. Before the operative could turn, a heavy combat boot slammed directly into his chest, sending him crashing backward through the coffee table in an explosion of splintered wood and flying debris.
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Arthur stood tall amidst the wreckage, his eyes burning with a cold, unforgiving fire as he drew his weapon and aimed it squarely at the remaining mercenaries crowding the doorway.
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