Chapter 13 - The Children's Shadow
The shockwave blew the inner oak doors off their brass hinges, showering the marble foyer in splinters and white plaster dust.
Through the haze of the explosion strode four figures in black tactical gear, helmets equipped with night-vision optics, their suppressed carbines sweeping the entry hall in interlocking sectors of fire. These were not street enforcers or mob hitmen; their movement was fluid, silent, and disciplined. Private military contractors. Hayes’ corporate muscle.
"Clear foyer," the point man hissed into his throat mic. "Target is Gabriel Duca. Priority one is securing the library west partition. Use lethal force on sight."
I was already positioned on the mezzanine landing, concealed behind the heavy turned balusters of the grand staircase.
I didn't fire my sidearm. That would give away my elevation.
Instead, I reached into my pocket and retrieved the remote detonator Vance had wired into the antique gas lines during our security overhaul two years ago. The original Victorian chandelier—a massive, eight-hundred-pound iron-and-crystal monstrosity—hung directly over the center of the foyer floor.
I clicked the trigger.
The central ceiling anchor blew with a sharp *crack*.
The chandelier fell like an iron anvil.
The point man didn't even have time to scream. The massive iron ring smashed directly down onto him, crushing him to the marble floor in an explosion of shattered Bohemian crystal and mangled bone.
The remaining three contractors scattered, firing controlled bursts toward the ceiling. The suppressed rounds tore into the plaster above my head, raining chunks of decorative molding down upon my shoulders.
I leaned over the railing, aligned the night sights of my Glock with the muzzle flash of the contractor closest to the library entrance, and squeezed the trigger three times.
Double-tap to the center mass, one to the head.
The man collapsed backward, his rifle clattering across the slick marble.
"Upstairs! On the mezzanine!" the third operative barked, spinning his carbine toward my position.
May you like
I rolled backward across the hardwood landing just as a burst of 5.56 armor-piercing rounds stitched a line of holes through the walnut balusters, the wood exploding in jagged shards inches from my face.
***
