Chapter 3 - The Broken SanctuaryEthan shrieked as blood gushed from his broken nose, his hands thrashing frantically against my grip. "SHE'S CRAZY, RICHARD! SHE HAD A PSYCHOTIC BREAK! SHE ATTACKED ME AND PASSED OUT!"
The two orderlies stepped forward, reaching for their stun batons, but Marcus Vance stepped through the broken front door, aligning a suppressed rifle squarely between the lead orderly’s eyes.
"Sit down and close your mouth," Marcus commanded flatly.
The two orderlies dropped their equipment and backed against the wall with raised, trembling hands.
I released Ethan, letting him slump onto the marble floorboards, groaning in total, pathetic defeat. I ran up the sweeping staircase, turning down the long hallway toward the primary suite.
The heavy mahogany door to the master bedroom was locked from the outside using a digital keypad.
I raised my SIG Sauer and fired two rounds directly into the lock mechanism.
THWACK-THWACK!
I kicked the door open and rushed inside.
The room was in total chaos. A crystal lamp lay shattered on the hardwood floorboards, blood splattered across the velvet sofa.
Lying on the floor beside the bed, wrapped in a torn sweater, her face bruised, her lip bleeding, clutching her arm where her shoulder was dislocated, was my twenty-six-year-old daughter, Emily.
She was shivering violently, her eyes wide with terror, gasping for air.
When she saw my face through her blurred vision, a raw, shuddering sob broke from her throat.
"D-Dad...?" she whispered, her voice barely a thread. "You... you came..."
I dropped my weapon onto the bed, falling to my knees beside her, pulling my daughter gently into my arms, holding her head against my chest as tears burned my eyes.
"I'm here, sweetheart," I choked out, my voice thick with thirty years of repressed fatherly grief. "I'm so sorry, Emily... I'm so sorry I took so long."
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Emily clutched my tactical jacket with her uninjured hand, weeping hysterical tears of safety against my chest. "He told me... he told me nobody would ever believe me... he said he owned the police..."
"He doesn't own me, Emily," I promised, every word dropped into the quiet room like a vow written in iron. "He is finished."
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