Chapter 6 - The Trap Shuts
"Open the door, Blake!" I shouted, slamming the heel of my palm against the oak panel.
"In due time, Claire," his muffled voice responded, perfectly modulated, utterly devoid of fear. "Mr. Moretti has suffered a sudden, catastrophic syncopal episode in his private quarters. An acute cerebral hemorrhage, I suspect. The paramedics have already been dispatched. Sadly, during the confusion, the twins’ respiratory systems experienced severe distress. I am currently preparing them for emergency transport to my private clinic in Greenwich."
"You're murdering them!" I screamed. "I have the mass spec results, Blake! Elena Vance ran the chromatography! The federal authorities know about VX-942!"
A short, dry chuckle drifted through the wood. "A brilliant bluff, my dear. But Dr. Vance’s laboratory is a state facility. To issue an emergency federal warrant, she needs a formal chain of custody, a sworn magistrate's sign-off, and forty-eight hours of procedural review. By then, the boys will have succumbed to their 'tragic congenital defect,' their bodies will be cremated per the Delacroix family protocol, and you will be facing charges for unlawful entry, corporate espionage, and trespassing."
The sound of his footsteps retreated down the hall, brisk and purposeful.
I turned around, my pulse roaring in my ears. I had no time to panic. In less than twenty minutes, Blake would have Lucas and Leo loaded into a private medical transport, where a single lethal bolus of potassium chloride or an overdose of VX-942 would end their lives before they ever reached a hospital.
I scanned the library. The room was on the second floor, with three massive floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the stone courtyard. The windows were heavy, leaded glass panes set in iron frames, double-bolted against Atlantic gales.
I grabbed the heavy bronze fire poker from the hearth.
Rushing to the central window, I brought the iron point down with all my strength against the corner of the glass. The impact sent a bone-jarring vibration up my arms, producing only a white starburst fracture in the laminated pane. I struck it again, and again, driving the heavy bronze wedge into the same point until the reinforced glass finally spiderwebbed and gave way with a deafening crash.
I knocked out the remaining jagged shards, ignoring the razor-sharp edges that sliced through the sleeve of my cardigan and into my forearm.
Below me, twelve feet down, lay the copper roof of the estate’s conservatory. Beyond that was the gravel driveway, where an unmarked black Mercedes ambulance was already idling, its rear doors wide open.
I climbed onto the stone sill, took one sharp, ragged breath, and jumped.
The impact with the sloping copper roof knocked the wind out of me, sending me skidding down the slick metal. I dug my heels into the rain gutter, stopping my slide just inches before the sheer drop to the stone terrace below. Blood was running warm down my left arm, but the adrenaline burned through the pain like white fire.
I scrambled down the wrought-iron decorative trellis that wrapped around the conservatory columns, dropping the final eight feet onto the lawn.
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I didn't head for the front gates. I ran straight for the manor’s service entrance—the sub-basement access where Mrs. Harper had told me the central climate control junction was hidden. If I couldn't stop Blake on the driveway, I had to cut the heart out of his machine.
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