Chapter 6 - The Ghost in the Attic
My heart stopped beating.
I shoved the mercenary off me with a vicious kick, leaving him gasping on the floor, and bolted up the stairs three at a time. The sound of a third intruder—one who must have slipped in through a rear window while we were engaged in the hallway—echoed from the second-floor landing.
"Lily!" I roared, bursting into the hallway.
The door to her bedroom was kicked wide open. The room was empty. The window leading out onto the second-story roof was shattered, shards of glass glinting in the morning light.
I sprinted to the window and vaulted through onto the slate roof.
Down in the backyard, near the edge of the treeline bordering the estate, a figure in black tactical gear was sprinting toward an idling black SUV parked illegally on the access road, carrying a small, struggling bundle wrapped in a pink blanket.
"Put her down!" I shouted, drawing my sidearm.
The operative threw Lily into the back seat of the SUV, slammed the door, and vaulted into the passenger side as the vehicle squealed its tires, tearing down the gravel road in a cloud of dust and flying mud.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped back into the master bedroom, grabbed my truck keys off the dresser, and flew down the stairs. Buster was barking furiously at the front door, frantic to get out.
"Stay, boy! Guard the house!" I yelled, diving into my Ford F-150 parked in the driveway.
I fired the engine, the V8 roaring to life with a deafening rumble, and slammed the transmission into reverse, tearing out of the driveway in pursuit of the black SUV.
The chase was a high-speed blur through the winding suburban roads of Bellweather. The SUV cut through red lights, dodging morning commuters who swerved wildly out of the way. I stayed locked on their bumper, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, my mind operating on pure, cold survival instinct.
They were heading toward the industrial docks near the river—the abandoned shipping yards where Arthur Vance’s shell companies operated out of rusted, empty warehouses.
The SUV took a sharp, screeching turn off the paved road onto the gravel-strewn loading docks, fishtailing wildly before slamming to a halt beside a massive shipping container.
The doors flew open. Two men dragged Lily out of the back seat, her tear-streaked face pale with terror, wrapped tightly in her pink blanket. Standing beside them, leaning casually against the hood of a luxury sedan, was Arthur Vance himself.
He wore the same expensive charcoal suit, though his tie was loosened and his hair was slightly disheveled by the morning wind.
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I slammed my truck into park twenty yards away, flung the door open, and stepped out with my hands raised slightly, my eyes locked directly onto Arthur.
"Let her go, Arthur," I shouted, closing the distance between us step by calculated step. "This is between you and me."
