Chapter 5 - Breach at Forty Floors
The penthouse went pitch black.
The glittering panorama of the Manhattan skyline vanished in an instant as the automated smart-glass windows blackened into opaque slate. The emergency lighting kicked in half a second later—a dull, amber strip running along the baseboards that cast long, distorted shadows across the marble floors.
"Stay down," Enzo commanded, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.
He drew a suppressed Walther PPK from a concealed holster beneath his arm, his movements economical and completely devoid of panic. He didn't head for the front doors; he moved toward the structural core of the kitchen, pulling Emily down behind the heavy granite island.
Siri didn't cower. The mastiff rose to his full height, his massive shoulders brushing against the lower cabinets. The low growl in his throat had turned into a guttural, terrifying roar that rattled the glassware in the upper racks.
"How many?" Emily whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"At least four," Enzo murmured, his eyes fixed on the private elevator vestibule at the far end of the darkened corridor. "The override code was entered from the basement. That means someone on the inside sold us out."
A dull, metallic thud echoed from the foyer—the sound of a silenced round punching through the reinforced wood of the front security door.
Enzo flicked a small toggle switch on the underside of the kitchen counter. A low hum filled the room as a heavy, bulletproof steel shutter began to descend over the kitchen entrance like a guillotine.
"They're not here to talk," Enzo said, raising his pistol.
Before the steel shutter could drop more than halfway, a flash of orange fire bloomed in the dark foyer. A concussive blast shook the penthouse, blowing the heavy mahogany double doors inward in a cloud of splinters and white smoke.
Two figures clad in tactical matte-black gear poured through the breach, their suppressed carbines tracking left and right with lethal, military precision. A third followed immediately behind, dragging a heavy thermal breaching torch.
"Clear!" one of them shouted through a muffled comms unit.
Siri didn't wait for an order.
The 150-pound mastiff launched himself over the granite island with the explosive force of a coiled spring. He cleared the five-foot counter in a single, fluid bound, his jaws snapping shut on the lead operative's forearm with a sound like a dry branch breaking under a boot.
The man screamed—a short, choked sound cut off instantly as Siri slammed him backward into the marble pillar near the dining table. The man's carbine clattered across the floor, discharging a wild burst into the ceiling that rained drywall dust down over the shattered art pieces.
"Fire! Drop the dog!" the second operative yelled, bringing his barrel down toward Siri.
Enzo’s pistol spat twice—thip, thip—a pair of suppressed rounds striking the operative squarely in the center of his ceramic chest plate. The man staggered back, stunned by the kinetic impact, dropping his weapon.
The third operative, realizing the dog was tearing their vanguard apart, swung his heavy breaching torch around like a club, aiming a vicious blow at Siri’s head.
"No!" Emily screamed.
Without thinking, fueled by a decade of grief and sudden, blinding rage, Emily scrambled over the kitchen island, grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet left on the stove, and hurled it with every ounce of strength she possessed.
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The iron skillet caught the operative squarely on the side of his tactical helmet with a hollow, resounding bong. The man wobbled, his eyes rolling back, and collapsed sideways onto the floor, unconscious.
Silence crashed back over the penthouse, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of the mastiff and the low hiss of the ventilation system.
