Chapter 7 - Shadows in the Safehouse
Back at the Calder estate, the grandfather clock struck three in the morning. Evelyn sat in the reinforced master suite, her hands resting protectively on her swollen belly. The house was utterly silent, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the bulletproof glass.
Suddenly, the ambient hum of the central heating died.
The chandelier flickered twice, then extinguished completely, plunging the mansion into pitch-black darkness.
Downstairs, the heavy emergency backup generators failed to kick on.
Evelyn stood up immediately, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was not a gangster's wife who lived in willful ignorance; Roman had spent five years drilling security protocols into her head. When primary power failed and backup failed to engage, it wasn't a municipal outage. It was an attack.
She reached beneath the mattress of the king-sized bed and retrieved the small Glock 19 Roman had taught her to strip, clean, and fire until her muscle memory was flawless. She slipped the weapon’s slide back, chambering a hollow-point round with a crisp, metallic snap.
A soft, muffled thump echoed from the ground floor.
Then came the sound of breaking wood.
Footsteps moved across the marble foyer below—stealthy, deliberate, and multiple.
Evelyn moved silently toward the heavy reinforced door of the master suite, turning the manual security deadbolt into place. She knew the room was designed to withstand small arms fire, but if they had breached the perimeter so easily, they had explosives.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out with trembling fingers.
Roman: ROSTOV IS IN THE HOUSE. DO NOT LEAVE THE SAFE VAULT. I AM THREE MINUTES AWAY.
Before she could type a response, a deafening blast shattered the peace of the night.
The heavy oak door of the master suite blew inward off its top hinges, showering the hardwood floor with splinters and plaster dust. The shockwave knocked Evelyn off her feet, sending her tumbling onto her side against the heavy dresser.
Pain shot through her lower back, sharp and fierce, and she gasped for air as a sudden, terrifying cramp seized her abdomen.
Through the haze of smoke and drifting drywall, two men in dark tactical gear stepped into the bedroom, their carbines raised.
“Careful,” a thick voice commanded from the hallway behind them. “The boss wants Calder’s wife alive. He wants Calder to watch what happens to his legacy before we put a bullet in his head.”
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Evelyn didn't hesitate.
Lying on the floor, propped against the mahogany dresser, she leveled the Glock with both hands, aimed at the lead intruder's chest, and pulled the trigger three times.
