Chapter 8 - The Price of Loyalty
Inside the reinforced safe room, the sound of the assault was muffled, reduced to rhythmic thumps against the titanium core.
Charlotte leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, clutching her bruised arm where she had thrown herself against the frame.
"The steel will hold," Charlotte assured me, trying to keep her voice steady. "It was built to withstand military explosives."
Then, the exterior cameras mounted outside the third-floor landing flickered onto the wall screen.
Everett wasn't trying to shoot through the door anymore; his men were attaching two industrial cutting torches to the hinges.
"They don't need explosives," I whispered in horror, watching the blue flames begin to hiss against the metal seals. "They're burning through the mounting pins."
Suddenly, the elevator doors at the end of the corridor chimed.
The doors slid open, and Graham stepped out alone into the smoke-filled hallway.
He didn't take cover, and he didn't shout a warning.
He held two heavy automatics, his face transformed into a mask of pure, unadulterated vengeance.
"Everett!" Graham’s voice was a primal roar that shook the corridor.
Everett spun around, bringing his shotgun up, but Graham was faster.
Graham fired four rapid shots, eliminating the two mercenaries operating the torches before they could even draw their sidearms.
The mercenaries crumpled to the Persian rug, the cutting torches clattering to the floor in a shower of sparks.
Everett dived behind the antique credenza, returning fire with wild, frantic bursts that chewed through the plaster walls.
"You ruined this family, Graham!" Everett screamed over the gunfire. "You gave everything to that girl and her thieving father!"
"You killed my brother!" Graham bellowed back, advancing step by relentless step down the hallway.
A bullet clipped Graham’s shoulder, tearing through his dark suit jacket, but he didn't even slow his stride.
He kicked the credenza aside with superhuman force, sending Everett sprawling onto his back across the bloody floorboards.
Everett scrambled for his dropped shotgun, his eyes wild with terror as he looked up into the barrel of Graham’s weapon.
"Graham... please... we're blood!" Everett wheezed, raising his hands in pathetic surrender.
Graham stood over him, his chest heaving, his shoulder bleeding freely through his torn linen shirt.
For three endless seconds, Boston’s most feared boss held his uncle's life on the tip of his trigger finger.
Then, Graham slowly lowered the gun by two inches.
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"Miles was blood," Graham said with deadly precision. "You are just a parasite."
He smashed the heavy butt of the steel pistol across Everett’s jaw, knocking him completely unconscious onto the shattered marble floor.
