Chapter 6 - The Siege
The heavy sound of shattered glass echoed from the mansion’s ground floor, followed by the muffled thuds of automatic weapons fitted with suppressors. Gunther acted without a fraction of a second of hesitation. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward a concealed doorway hidden seamlessly behind a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
“Emergency safe room?” I whispered, my heart slamming violently against my ribs.
“No,” Gunther whispered back, his breath warm against my ear in the suffocating darkness. “Safe rooms are metal coffins when the enemy has internal access codes. We take the high ground and flank them.”
Red emergency backup lights buzzed to life along the baseboards, casting long, eerie crimson shadows down the corridor. Gunther moved like a wraith—silent, lethal, and hyper-aware. He guided me along the catwalk overlooking the grand foyer. Peering over the marble balustrade, my blood turned to ice.
Below, six heavily armed men in black tactical gear and balaclavas were sweeping the ground floor, executing Gunther’s night watchmen with chilling precision. Walking calmly behind them, casually smoking a cigarette, was Victor Cruz.
“Clear the study!” Victor barked. “Find Gunther. Take him alive if you can—Dante wants the pleasure of watching the light leave his eyes personally. If you find the Hughes girl, shoot her on sight.”
Hearing my name marked for death made my vision swim with adrenaline. Gunther leaned close to me. “Stay behind this marble pillar. Do not move unless I tell you to.”
Before I could answer, Gunther stepped out into the open catwalk. Raising his twin custom pistols, he fired with terrifying, machine-like accuracy. Two shots echoed like thunderclaps in the cavernous foyer; two tactical mercenaries collapsed instantly before their weapons even cleared their hips.
“Ambush! Catwalk!” Victor screamed, diving behind an antique grand piano.
A hail of bullets tore into the balustrade, sending chunks of crushed marble and plaster raining down like shrapnel. Dust choked the air. Gunther fired back, his movements fluid and devastating, dropping a third attacker who tried to scale the grand staircase.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps sounded directly behind us on the catwalk. One of the hitmen had looped around through the servants' back stairs. He raised an assault rifle, leveling the barrel directly at Gunther’s unprotected back while Gunther was engaged with the shooters below.
Gunther couldn’t see him. There was no time to yell. No time to think.
Pure instinct took over. I raised the compact 9mm Gunther had handed me, pressed both shaking hands against the grip, aimed at the center of the intruder’s chest, and squeezed the trigger.
The recoil bucked violently through my wrists. The deafening gunshot ripped through my ears. The attacker gasped, staggering backward as the round tore through his collarbone, his rifle discharging harmlessly into the ceiling before he toppled backward over the railing, crashing through a glass coffee table twenty feet below.
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Gunther spun around, seeing the fallen assassin, then looked at me. My hands were smoking, my knuckles white, my eyes wide with shock. For the first time, Gunther’s gaze held something fierce, protective, and unmistakably intimate.
“Good girl,” he breathed, pulling me behind the cover of the central pillar. “Now let’s finish this.”
