Chapter 4 - Blood In The Penthouse
The automated lockdown protocol engaged instantly. Heavy titanium shutters slammed down over the elevator shafts, their hydraulic seals hissing with mechanical finality. Red emergency lights bathed the sixty-story penthouse in a bloody glow.
Damian didn't flinch. In a single fluid motion, he pulled a concealed Glock 19 from his shoulder holster, chambered a round with a practiced flick of his wrist, and reached behind Elena’s desk, hitting a hidden button beneath the woodwork.
A panel on the mahogany wall slid back silently, revealing a reinforced steel panic alcove.
“Inside. Now,” Damian ordered, his eyes never leaving the main double doors of the penthouse.
“Damian, what is that?” Elena asked, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“The perimeter sensors at the forty-fifth floor were cut,” Damian said calmly, his voice steady as granite. “Victor Kesler is here.”
The name fell like a toxic cloud. Over the last four months, Elena had seen that name in the private security briefings: Victor Kesler, the ruthless butcher who controlled the rival syndicate in Detroit. Kesler had spent two years attempting to seize Blackwood’s shipping docks along the Great Lakes, leaving a trail of bodies across three states.
Before Elena could step into the vault, the heavy glass doors of the executive suite shattered outward in an explosive spray of reinforced shards.
Three men in tactical gear stormed through the smoke, submachine guns raised. Damian fired before their boots touched the slate floor. Two precise shots tore through the center mass of the lead operative, dropping him instantly. Damian pivoted, using the massive mahogany desk as cover, firing two more rounds that drove the remaining gunmen back into the corridor.
“Move, Elena!” he roared.
Elena lunged toward the panic room, but an ear-splitting blast shook the ceiling. A concussion grenade exploded near the entrance of the suite. The shockwave blew Elena off her feet, slamming her violently against the carpet. The world went silent, replaced by a deafening, high-pitched ringing in her ears. Smoke filled her lungs, acrid with sulfur and burning plastic.
Through the haze, she saw Damian engaged in brutal hand-to-hand combat with a massive mercenary. Damian drove a combat knife into the man’s throat, turning to engage another attacker, but a burst of automatic fire ripped through the air. Damian took a round to his left shoulder, the force spinning him against the shattered glass partition.
Footsteps thundered across the debris.
A man in a charcoal cashmere coat walked through the smoke, flanked by four armed operatives. He had greasy blond hair slicked back, a jagged scar running from his lip to his ear, and a mocking, reptilian grin. Victor Kesler.
“Damian,” Kesler sneered, aiming an automatic pistol directly at Damian’s head. “Look at you. Bleeding out on your own high-rise carpet like a stray dog.”
Damian was down on one knee, blood soaking through his white dress shirt, his breathing ragged. Yet his gray eyes were ablaze with pure, undiluted malice. “You should have brought an army, Victor.”
“I brought enough to wipe your name off the map,” Kesler laughed. Then, his eyes darted across the ruined suite and landed on Elena, who was struggling to push herself up from the floor.
May you like
Kesler’s grin widened into something sickening. “Well, well. What do we have here? Damian Blackwood’s hidden treasure?”
Before Damian could react, Kesler lunged forward, grabbed Elena by the collar of her blouse, and dragged her across the glass-strewn floor toward the panoramic observation window.
