“STOP! DON’T GET IN THAT CAR!” MY 3-YEAR-OLD SCREAMED AT THE MAFIA BOSS. THEN SHE POINTED UNDER HIS SUV.

"EMP pulse," Vincent muttered instantly, his professional detachment snapping back into place with terrifying speed. He stood up in a single fluid motion, his hand dropping automatically to the heavy black pistol holstered at his waist. "They didn't just breach the lock, Dominic. They fried the local grid using a localized electromagnetic pulse generator. Get backup to the subterranean junction immediately!"

"Already moving!" Dominic shouted over the heavy roar of gunfire echoing faintly through the audio feed. "Alpha team is engaging in the service corridor now!"

I jumped to my feet, my heart pounding in my throat as I looked toward the open door of the adjacent bedroom where Mia was sleeping. "Mia—"

"Stay here," Vincent ordered, his tone absolute, leaving no room for argument. He stepped forward and slammed a heavy steel security bolt across the bunker door, locking it from the inside. "The safe room is rated for direct artillery fire. Nothing gets in here."

"Where are you going?" I demanded, panic surging through my veins as I grabbed his sleeve. "You can't go up there alone! There are multiple gunmen!"

Vincent looked down at my hand gripping his arm, then slowly raised his gaze to meet my eyes. A faint, grim smile touched his lips.

"I'm not alone, Elena," he said softly. "I have a score to settle with Marcus Vance. And nobody invades my home."

Before I could stop him, Vincent pulled a heavy steel maintenance ladder set into the back wall of the bunker—a secondary emergency egress that led directly up into the private armory of the main house. He hauled himself up into the dark shaft with athletic precision, the heavy metal hatch slamming shut behind him with a dull, echoing thud.

Left alone in the subterranean vault, the silence was deafening, broken only by the frantic chatter of the security radios echoing through the console speakers.

“Alpha team, contact! Multiple shooters in black tactical gear pushing through the sub-level!”

“Suppressing fire! Watch the cross-breeze vector!”

“Get down the corridor—protect the main archive!”

I paced the length of the bunker like a caged animal, my hands wringing together. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to check on Mia, but I forced myself to stay put, knowing that running out into the hallway was suicide.

Suddenly, a loud, muffled explosion shook the ground beneath our feet. Dust sifted down from the acoustic ceiling tiles, and the emergency backup lights flickered a sickly yellow before stabilizing.

On the monitors, screen two—covering the hallway outside the armory—flickered back to life.

My breath caught in my throat.

Two men in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by ski masks and night-vision goggles, were creeping down the corridor toward the private elevator that led directly down to the safe room. One of them held a heavy breaching charge against the outer security door of the bunker's elevator shaft.

"No," I whispered in horror.

They had found the secondary access route. They knew where the safe room was.

On screen six, I watched Vincent move silently down the opposite end of the corridor, stepping out of the shadows like a ghost. He didn't shout a warning. He didn't hesitate.

Crack. Crack.

Two precise, controlled gunshots echoed through the monitor speakers. The lead gunman crumpled instantly, his body crashing hard against the marble floor. The second operative spun around, raising his rifle, but Vincent was already moving, closing the distance with terrifying speed. A brutal, silent struggle played out in grim black-and-white pixels—a sweep of a leg, the heavy crack of a rifle butt against bone, and the second intruder went down hard, motionless.

Vincent stood over them, chest heaving slightly, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. He looked directly up at the ceiling camera, his dark eyes locking onto the lens as if he could see straight through to the bunker below.