Chapter 7 - THE STORM OVER BLACKWOOD
The sky above Surrey turned the color of bruised iron as night fell. Rain lashed violently against the ancient stone walls of Blackwood Manor, whipped by powerful gales that howled through the lavender fields like angry ghosts.
Inside the manor, the atmosphere was warm and calm.
Emma sat in the nursery on the second floor, rocking gently in a wooden glider. The room was painted in soft sage green and white, filled with stuffed animals, handcrafted wooden toys, and a beautifully carved oak crib.
Her doctor had visited earlier that afternoon. The baby was healthy, strong, and expected to arrive in less than two weeks.
Suddenly, the warm crystal chandelier in the nursery flickered twice and died.
The room was plunged into total darkness, illuminated only by the dramatic flashes of lightning through the high windows.
Emma froze, her heart giving a sudden, instinctual leap.
Downstairs, the hum of the backup generators failed to kick in.
In the ground-floor security control room, Marcus stared at three blank monitors. "Status report!" he shouted into his tactical radio. "Gate 1, talk to me!"
Static was the only answer.
"Gate 2! Report!"
Nothing.
"Power grid cut at the main transformer," Marcus rasped to the two armed security officers standing beside him. "Frequency jammers are active. They've isolated the estate. Secure the Chairman and Miss Emma immediately! Go!"
Outside, near the eastern wall of the estate gardens, Miller and two masked operatives cut through the secondary wire fence. Behind them, drenched in rain and holding a heavy steel tire iron, was Andrew Weston.
"Power's killed, jammer is active," Miller whispered over the roar of the wind. "We’ve got six minutes before their manual response teams re-establish local defense. Move!"
The men slipped through the dark gardens like shadows, bypassing the disabled laser sensors.
Andrew’s heart pounded violently in his ears. He wasn't thinking about law, consequences, or logic anymore. His mind had broken into pure, chaotic mania. In his twisted reality, Emma was waiting for him. She had been forced into this castle by Arthur Vance, and once Andrew eliminated the old man, she would realize he was her savior.
Inside the manor, Marcus rushed up the grand marble staircase, his sidearm drawn.
He reached Arthur Vance’s private study first. The old man was standing near his desk, holding an antique revolver, his face entirely calm despite his frail health.
"Marcus," Arthur said coolly. "Is she safe?"
"My men are securing the second floor right now, sir," Marcus said. "You need to come down to the safe room beneath the wine cellar."
"No," Arthur said firmly. "They aren't here for me. They're here for Emma."
Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass echoed from the ground-floor conservatory, followed by the muffled, brutal sound of silent gunfire—suppressed rounds tearing through wood and plaster.
Down the long second-floor corridor, Emma stepped out of the nursery, holding a heavy brass flashlight.
"Marcus?!" she called out into the dark, her voice echoing down the hallway.
A figure stepped out from the darkness at the far end of the hall.
Lightning flashed outside the high gothic windows, illuminating the man's rain-soaked clothes, wild hair, and hollow, crazed eyes.
Emma gasped, her blood running ice-cold.
"Andrew..."
"Hello, my love," Andrew rasped, stepping forward, the heavy tire iron swinging loosely at his side. A sickening, terrifying smile spread across his face. "Did you miss me?"
Emma backed away slowly, clutching her swelling stomach with one arm while pointing the bright beam of the flashlight directly into his face. "Andrew... stay away from me. Security is already on their way."
"Security?" Andrew laughed, a harsh, crazy sound that cut through the thunder. "Your precious security is dead or distracted in the gardens, Emma! There is no one left to protect you! No private jets! No shell companies! Just you and me!"
"You're insane, Andrew!" Emma yelled, her back hitting the cold wood of the nursery door. "Look at yourself! You've destroyed your life!"
"I destroyed my life?!" Andrew roared, taking three fast, violent steps toward her. "You destroyed my life! You left those papers on my desk! You took my fund! You made me a laughingstock on Wall Street!"
He lunged forward, grabbing her by her upper arm with crushing force.
Emma screamed, swinging the brass flashlight with all her strength, catching Andrew across the cheekbone.
Andrew yelled in pain, stumbling back as blood trickled down his cheek. But the shock only infuriated him more. He reached out again, his fingers tightening around her wrist.
"You're coming with me!" he snarled, dragging her toward the stairs. "We're going to my car, and you're going to sign every asset back to me!"
"Let her go, Weston!"
A deep, powerful voice echoed down the hall.
Andrew froze and turned.
Standing ten feet away, leaning heavily against the doorframe of his study, was Arthur Vance. He held a small black pistol pointed directly at Andrew's chest. His hand was trembling slightly from age and weakness, but his eyes were filled with lethal, absolute resolve.
"Get out of my way, old man!" Andrew yelled, pulling Emma in front of him as a human shield. "Shoot me, and you shoot your darling precious heir!"
Emma felt the cold steel of Andrew’s grip, but she didn't panic. She looked at Arthur. She saw the love and fierce determination in the old man's eyes.
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"Arthur..." Emma whispered. "Don't let him take the baby."
Suddenly, Emma drove her elbow backward into Andrew's ribs with every ounce of force she possessed.
