Chapter 6 - Midnight in the Studio
The third-floor studio was normally locked tight, accessible only via a biometric scanner that recognized Elena’s fingerprint. But desperate times required desperate measures. Armed with a master override keycard my father had kept from the estate’s original construction blueprints, we bypassed the digital lock with a mechanical click.
The room was pitch black, smelling faintly of expensive incense and printer toner. I slipped inside first, my flashlight cutting through the gloom to illuminate rows of filing cabinets, a minimalist mahogany desk, and a sleek dual-monitor workstation.
"Stay by the door, Dad," I whispered, keeping my voice low. "If anyone pulls up the driveway, flash your phone light twice."
"Hurry," my father muttered, keeping watch in the hallway. "Her lawyers aren't stupid. They know what’s on this floor."
I moved swiftly to the desk. The external hard drive wasn't plugged into the computer; it rested inside an open leather desk organizer next to a stack of international airline tickets booked for tomorrow morning under an alias. I snatched it up, sliding it securely into my coat pocket.
Before I could turn toward the door, a sudden beep echoed from the workstation console. The monitor flickered to life, illuminating the dark room in a harsh, pale blue glow.
An automated security script had triggered, displaying a live video feed from the estate’s perimeter cameras. I froze, my breath catching in my throat.
On the screen, three unmarked black vans were turning down our private gated drive, bypassing the security gate without stopping. They weren't federal agents. The men stepping out of the vehicles wore heavy tactical gear, carrying suppressed rifles and heavy breaching tools.
"Dad!" I screamed, spinning toward the door. "We’ve been compromised! Get away from the stairs!"
Before my father could answer, a loud, concussive boom echoed through the house as the front security door downstairs was blown off its heavy iron hinges. Shouts, heavy boots pounding against hardwood floors, and the terrifying sound of glass shattering shattered the midnight silence.
"They're not here to arrest us," my father yelled, sprinting down the hallway toward the studio, grabbing a heavy brass floor lamp as an improvised weapon. "They're here to clean house!"
"Through the back terrace!" Clara’s voice suddenly echoed from the stairwell leading up from the second floor. She was sprinting toward us, carrying my newborn daughter tightly swaddled against her chest in a thick wool blanket, her face pale with terror. "The rear stairs are clear! Move, now!"
We didn't hesitate. We bolted through the studio’s French doors leading out onto the third-floor private roof terrace, the cold rain instantly soaking through our clothes. The wind howled around us as we scrambled across the slick slate tiles toward the emergency spiral fire escape leading down to the back gardens.
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Heavy boots slammed against the wooden floorboards inside the studio just seconds after we cleared the threshold. A suppressed gunshot cracked through the air, shattering the glass door behind us as a bullet chipped the stone pillar inches from my shoulder.
"Down the ladder! Go, go, go!" my father roared, shoving me toward the metal rungs of the fire escape while providing cover with the heavy brass lamp.
