Chapter 7 - A Trap Set in White Silk
Through the high-definition security screen, I watched the standoff unfold like a nightmare in slow motion.
My hands shook violently against my stomach. Think, Amelia, I told myself, fighting back the rising tide of hysterical panic. He gave you the key, but he didn't tell you to sit here and watch him die.
On the screen, Declan took a slow, deliberate step forward, completely unfazed by the plastic explosive vest strapped to Savannah’s chest.
"You're shaking, Savannah," Declan said, his voice eerily soothing, like a man talking down a rabid dog. "You always were weak under pressure. That’s why your father never gave you the codes to the port accounts until the day he died."
"Shut up!" Savannah shrieked, her thumb hovering over the red pressure switch on the detonator. "You ruined my family! You slaughtered my brothers! You made me a laughingstock before the entire country!"
"Your father signed his own death warrant the moment he put a rifle scope on Amelia's studio window," Declan said coldly. "He knew the rules. You don't bring civilians into the fire."
"She isn't a civilian!" Savannah snarled, her bloodshot eyes bulging. "She's carrying your heir! Marcus saw the medical logs! Northwestern Memorial’s private database—you accessed the pregnancy records three weeks ago!"
Behind her, Marcus Voss shifted nervously, keeping his weapon trained on Declan's chest. "It’s over, Declan. Sign over the holding proxies to me, give Savannah the transit codes to escape to South America, and maybe we leave this building intact."
"You really think you're walking out of here alive, Marcus?" Declan asked, a cold, mocking smirk touching his lips.
Inside the vault, I noticed something on the corner screen. A tiny red indicator light on the fire suppression system in the main living room ceiling was blinking rhythmically.
Three short pulses, two long.
Gavin’s code.
Declan wasn't just stalling; he was waiting for the Halon gas system to pressurize. But Halon gas would displace all the oxygen in the room within four seconds—meaning anyone caught without a breathing apparatus would suffer immediate hypoxia and collapse.
Declan was wearing a suit. He had no mask. He was planning to suffocate them all, including himself, to keep the blast from detonating near the vault.
"No," I whispered. "No, you don't."
I rushed to the emergency equipment rack inside the vault. Bolted to the wall were two compact emergency oxygen canisters with breathing regulators, designed for escaping fires. I grabbed both, slamming the quick-release valves into my belt.
Then, I looked at the heavy titanium vault door.
Declan thought he was protecting me by locking me away. But if he died in that room, my baby and I would be left alone in a world full of wolves anyway.
I turned the manual internal release wheel with all the strength in my body. The hydraulic pins groaned, unlocking with a deafening clack.
I pushed the door open, slipping silently out of the master closet into the darkened corridor behind the living room just as Savannah took another frantic step toward Declan.
"I don't care about South America, Marcus!" Savannah screamed suddenly, turning on Declan's uncle. "I don't care about the money! I want him to burn like my family burned!"
Her thumb moved to depress the detonator.
"Declan!" I screamed, stepping into the open archway of the living room.
Every head in the room snapped toward me.
"Amelia, get back!" Declan roared, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated horror.
In that single split second of absolute distraction, the world exploded into motion.
Savannah turned her wild, hateful gaze toward me, her teeth bared in a feral grin. "There you are, you little—"
A deafening bang shattered the air.
It wasn't the bomb.
It was Gavin, dropping from the maintenance grate directly above Marcus Voss, his combat knife severing Marcus’s wrist before the older man could even squeeze the trigger of his rifle. Marcus collapsed with a shriek of agony, clutching his bloody forearm.
Simultaneously, Declan surged forward like a panther. He didn't go for Savannah's gun; his hands clamped down with bone-crushing force over her right hand, jamming his steel-like fingers directly beneath the detonator’s plunger, preventing the switch from depressing by a fraction of an inch.
"Gavin! Disarm the vest!" Declan bellowed, veins bulging along his neck as he physically restrained Savannah’s frantic, bucking body.
Savannah bit Declan's arm, drawing blood, thrashing like a demon. "Die! Die with me!"
I didn't think. I sprinted across the polished hardwood floor, grabbed the heavy marble sculpture off the side console—a piece Declan had bought from my gallery months ago—and brought it crashing down against the back of Savannah’s skull with every ounce of fury inside my soul.
Savannah went instantly limp, slumping to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
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Declan wrenched the detonator from her slack fingers, tossing it across the room to Gavin, who caught it cleanly and immediately jammed the safety pin back into the housing.
The room fell dead silent, save for the ragged sound of our breathing.
