Chapter 8 - Siege of Blackwood Point
The foyer of the mansion erupted into a chaotic war zone.
“Contact! Front entrance!” Dominic roared, diving behind a massive marble Corinthian pillar as a volley of suppressed submachine gun fire chewed through the expensive wainscoting, sending splinters and plaster flying into the air.
Vincent didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee behind the mahogany reception desk, leveled his Sig Sauer, and fired three rapid shots through the dim, red-lit gloom. A muffled grunt echoed across the marble floor as one of the armored intruders spun and collapsed near the shattered front doors.
“Dominic, how many?” Vincent barked over the deafening whine of the backup emergency alarms.
“At least six! Professional tier-one operators! They bypassed our perimeter grid in under ten seconds—they had the encryption keys!” Dominic shouted back, returning fire with three precise bursts from his MP5.
Vincent’s mind raced with terrifying clarity. The EMP had knocked out the internal security cameras, the electronic door locks, and the elevator shafts. The west wing was completely isolated. And Matteo was up there, alone.
“They’re not here for me,” Vincent said, his voice cold and deadly as he reloaded his weapon. “They’re here for my son.”
“Go!” Dominic yelled, laying down a heavy suppressive wall of lead toward the grand staircase. “I’ll hold the lobby! Get to Matteo!”
Vincent didn't look back. He scrambled past the hail of gunfire, abandoning the open foyer and sprinting toward the rear service stairs that led directly to the upper west wing. His boots pounded against the stone steps as he hauled himself upward two at a time, his lungs burning with icy air.
Upstairs, the hallway was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint, pulsing crimson glow of the emergency floor strips.
As Vincent rounded the corner toward Matteo’s bedroom, he saw a horrifying sight: the heavy oak door was splintered off its hinges. Two black-clad operatives stood inside the room, dragging a heavily sedated, limp figure wrapped in a blanket toward the private balcony overlooking the cliffside.
“Drop him!” Vincent roared, leveling his pistol.
The first operative spun around, raising his rifle, but before he could pull the trigger, a dark, flying shadow dropped from the ceiling rafters directly onto his shoulders.
It was Clara.
With feral intensity, Clara slammed a heavy steel fire extinguisher into the operative’s helmet, sending him crashing hard against the bedroom wall. The second operative swung his rifle toward her, but Vincent fired twice, striking the man in the shoulder and dropping him to his knees.
Dominic, who had fought his way up the rear stairs, burst into the room behind Vincent and subdued the remaining operative with a swift, brutal strike to the temple with the butt of his weapon.
Within seconds, the room fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of the combatants and the wailing of the distant alarms.
Vincent rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the figure wrapped in the blanket. He pulled back the cloth with trembling hands.
It wasn't Matteo.
It was Clara’s canvas duffel bag, weighted down with lead bars to mimic the size and weight of a child.
Vincent whipped his head around, staring at Clara, who was standing by the window, breathing heavily, a nasty bruise forming along her jawline.
“Where is he?” Vincent demanded, his voice cracking with sheer terror. “Where is Matteo?!”
Clara pointed out the shattered balcony window toward the churning black ocean below.
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Through the pouring rain and swirling mist, a tactical rescue helicopter hovered silently against the cliff face, its winched cable hoisting a small, titanium wheelchair containing a terrified, struggling boy up into the open cabin doors.
The trap had been sprung. And Vincent had walked right into it.
