Chapter 6 - The Trap is Sprung
“They know about her,” Luke whispered, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. “They know she’s staying here. Whoever is leaking our internal security protocols realizes that Emma isn't just a maid anymore—she’s your weak spot.”
Rage, cold and lethal, flooded my veins, pushing out every trace of hesitation. For two years, I had accepted my crippled state as a permanent defeat, hiding inside this fortress while my enemies circled like vultures. But the moment someone put a target on Emma’s back, the dormant syndicate boss woke up.
“Trace the IP address of that transmission,” I commanded, my voice dropping into an icy whisper. “I want every server farm between here and Zurich compromised within the hour. And double the perimeter guard. No one enters or leaves this estate without my direct authorization.”
“Danny,” Luke warned cautiously. “If this is an inside job—if someone on our payroll is feeding intel to the sniper—doubling guards won't stop a bullet from the outside. We’re sitting ducks here.”
“We aren't sitting ducks,” I replied, rolling my wheelchair toward the armory cabinet behind my mahogany desk. I unlocked the heavy glass doors and pulled out a modified Heckler & Koch carbine, checking the magazine with practiced, deadly efficiency. “We’re the bait.”
That night, the storm returned with a vengeance. Heavy rain lashed against the reinforced glass windows of the estate, drowning out the ambient sounds of the city. Inside the guest suite, Emma was fast asleep, recovering from her surgery under the heavy sedation of prescribed rest.
I sat in my study alone, the lights turned off, bathed only in the pale glow of my security monitors. Every camera feed was green, every motion sensor active.
Then, at 2:14 AM, the power feed to the eastern wing flickered and died.
The security monitors for Gate Four went instantly black.
“Luke,” I spoke into the encrypted comms unit clipped to my collar. “Eastern perimeter has been compromised. They’re coming through the greenhouse.”
“Copy that. Moving in,” Luke’s voice crackled back over the static.
I didn't wait for Luke to clear the hallway. I maneuvered my wheelchair out of the study, navigating the familiar corridors in absolute silence, sliding into the shadowy alcove near the guest suite where Emma slept. My carbine rested across my lap, its suppressor screwed tightly onto the barrel.
Footsteps echoed softly on the hardwood floor—light, deliberate, and professional. Someone wearing tactical rubber soles was moving through my fortress as if they owned it.
A shadow detached itself from the hallway corner, silhouetted against the dim lightning flashing through the tall windows. It was a man dressed in black tactical gear, holding a suppressed pistol, creeping directly toward Emma’s door.
My finger tightened on the trigger.
Before I could fire, a sudden crash echoed from the opposite end of the corridor as Luke and two guards converged from the staircase, weapons drawn.
“Drop the weapon!” Luke roared.
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The intruder didn't hesitate. Instead of surrendering, he spun around, fired two rapid shots toward Luke’s team, and then lunged sideways—not toward the guards, but straight through the double doors of Emma’s guest suite.
“No!” I roared, pushing my wheelchair forward with furious, superhuman strength, rolling down the hallway like a rolling juggernaut of vengeance.
