Chapter 5 - The Christmas Eve Intruder
Time seemed to fracture into slow motion.
Gideon didn't shout. He didn't issue a warning.
He lunged through the doorway, his shoulder slamming directly into the intruder’s side with the force of a freight train. The assassin stumbled hard against the mahogany dresser, the suppressed pistol clattering loudly across the hardwood floor.
With a low grunt, the intruder recovered with terrifying speed, spinning around and driving a heavy combat boot directly into Gideon’s chest. The impact knocked the wind out of Gideon’s lungs, sending him crashing backward against the doorframe.
The intruder reached down for his dropped weapon, but Gideon lunged forward again, tackling him around the waist and driving him through the open door out into the wide second-floor hallway.
They rolled across the carpet in a brutal, silent struggle. The intruder was younger, leaner, trained in close-quarters combat. He drove an elbow into Gideon’s jaw, tasting blood, but Gideon refused to let go, his fingers locking around the man’s tactical vest, pinning him against the decorative banister overlooking the grand foyer below.
“Who sent you?” Gideon snarled, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. “Alistair Vance?”
The intruder didn't answer. A cold, cruel smile crept across his masked face. He reached into his belt holster, pulling out a heavy combat knife.
Before the blade could descend, a sharp, metallic click echoed down the hallway.
“Drop the knife,” a steady, cold voice commanded.
Marcus stood at the top of the stairs, holding a tactical shotgun leveled dead at the intruder’s chest. His finger rested lightly on the trigger, his aim absolute.
The assassin froze. He looked from Marcus’s unwavering barrel back to Gideon, who was wiping a smear of blood from his lip. Realizing the tactical advantage was gone, the intruder gave a slow, mocking nod, released his grip on the knife, and threw his hands up.
“You’re a hard man to surprise, Vale,” the assassin rasped. “But Alistair Vance has long arms. You can’t protect her forever. Not in Chicago.”
“Marcus,” Gideon said, breathing heavily as he climbed to his feet, keeping his Sig Sauer trained on the man’s head. “Zip-tie him, strip his comms, and lock him in the basement wine cellar. Then wake up the IT team. We’re going to trace every ping on his encrypted radio before sunrise.”
As Marcus hauled the struggling intruder away down the corridor, Gideon turned and walked slowly back into the guest suite.
The room was freezing. The window had been jimmied open from the outside.
In the center of the bed, Norah was sitting bolt upright. The blankets were pulled up to her chin, her big brown eyes wide with absolute terror. She hadn't made a sound during the entire fight, curled into a tight ball like an animal hiding from a predator.
Gideon holstered his weapon, walked slowly over to the bed, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. He didn't speak. He simply reached out and pulled the edge of the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“Are you okay?” Gideon asked softly, his voice rough from the brawl.
Norah nodded slowly, her lower lip trembling. She looked down at the stuffed rabbit clutched in her arms, then up at Gideon’s bruised face.
“The bad men found us, didn't they?” she whispered.
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Gideon looked into her eyes—eyes that had seen far too much of the dark underside of the world at just seven years old. He realized then that running was no longer an option. Hiding behind high gates and security systems wouldn't work.
If he wanted to keep this little girl safe—if he wanted to honor whatever small piece of his humanity had survived the night his own daughter died—he was going to have to take the fight directly to the men who thought they owned the city.
