Chapter 4 - Breach at the East WingThe alarms didn't wail; they hummed with a low, vibrating red pulse that signaled a code-black breach.

"Lock down the medical suite," I snapped at Prescott, rising to my full height as the adrenaline flooded my veins, burning away every trace of exhaustion. "Engage the reinforced steel shutters over the windows. If a single ant tries to get through that glass, vaporize it."

"Done," Prescott replied, tapping his earpiece. "The automated turrets on the north wall are online. But Lawson... Vane brought heavy ordinance. They’re using thermal breaching charges on the secondary gate."

I looked down at Jonah and Blythe. The amber liquid Elena had injected was already working; the deathly gray pallor around their lips was beginning to recede, replaced by a faint, natural warmth. Their breathing, though still shallow, had lost that terrifying, rattling struggle.

"Stay here," I told Elena, my hand resting on the grip of my Sig Sauer P226. "If anyone gets past the corridor, you take the children down the panic chute behind the bookshelf."

Elena looked at me, a strange, unreadable expression crossing her amber eyes. "You think I came all this way to hide in a hole, Lawson? I spent two years learning how to hunt the monsters who stole my family. I'm not about to cower in a nursery."

Before I could argue, a deafening explosion rocked the estate.

The floor beneath our feet heaved. Plaster dusted down from the ceiling as the shockwave of a C4 charge echoed through the sprawling mansion. The power grid flickered, plunging the grand hallways into emergency crimson backup lighting.

"They're through the courtyard," Prescott shouted over the roar of distant automatic gunfire. "They're pushing through the east gallery!"

I didn't hesitate. I drew my sidearm, flicked off the safety, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving Elena right where she needed to be—protecting my children.

The east gallery was our family’s ancestral shrine—a long, vaulted corridor lined with oil paintings of dead Mercers who had built an empire on blood, steel, and ruthless ambition. Now, those portraits were being shredded by high-caliber rounds as Vane’s mercenaries flooded through the French doors.

"Mercer!" a voice roared through the smoke and haze. playtime was over!

Crosby Vane stepped out from behind a shattered marble pillar, a customized assault rifle braced against his shoulder, his face twisted into a manic, triumphant grin. Behind him stood half a dozen heavily armored operatives, their tactical vests stamped with Vane’s private security insignia.

"You're a hard man to reach, Lawson!" Vane laughed, firing a burst into a priceless 19th-century landscape just to watch it disintegrate. "Thought you could lock yourself in your fortress and ignore the real world? While your brats rot in their beds?"

I raised my Sig Sauer, my grip ice-cold, my heart beating in absolute, perfect rhythm.

"You stepped foot on my property, Crosby," I said, my voice cutting through the ringing alarms like a razor blade. "That means you don't leave in a body bag. You leave in pieces."

I squeezed the trigger.

The first round caught Vane’s lead mercenary square in the chest plates, spinning him backward into the glass display cases. Chaos erupted in the gallery as muzzle flashes lit up the darkness, the roar of gunfire drowning out the storm outside.

I rolled behind a massive stone fireplace just as a hail of lead chewed up the wood paneling inches from my head. I returned fire blindly, dropping two more of Vane’s men before my magazine clicked empty.

Footsteps pounded closer. A heavy boot kicked against my cover.

"End of the line, Mercer!" Vane yelled over the gunfire.

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing crack echoed from the balcony above.

A single bullet punched clean through Vane’s tactical shoulder guard, spinning him around with a howl of agony. He dropped his rifle, clutching his shattered shoulder as blood sprayed across the Persian rug.

I looked up toward the vaulted rafters.

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Standing on the narrow balcony, a high-powered sniper rifle smoking in her hands, was Elena Sterling. She racked the bolt with cold, practiced efficiency, sighting down at the remaining mercenaries who were suddenly scrambling in absolute terror.

"Drop your weapons," Elena’s voice rang out, carrying the chilling authority of an executioner. "Or the next one goes through your skull."