Chapter 2 - The East Wing Ambush
The hallway burned with the smell of cordite and shattered plaster.
Narin didn’t stop to think about her three-dollar bank balance, or the eviction notice taped to her apartment door, or the sheer insanity of running toward automatic rifle fire instead of away from it. All she knew was that Declan Graham, for all his dark threats and unbearable arrogance, was trapped in a motorized wheelchair on the second floor while men with heavy weapons breached his home.
She rounded the grand staircase just as a volley of bullets blew out the stained-glass window above the landing. Shards rained down like colored ice, slicing across her cheek, but she barely felt it.
Upstairs, the heavy mahogany doors to Declan’s office were already scorched with bullet holes.
"Clear the hall!" a voice shouted in Italian-accented English from inside the wing. "Rossy wants Graham alive or in pieces! Don't let the crippled bastard reach the vault!"
Narin ducked behind a heavy marble pillar as two men in tactical gear kicked open the double doors of the office. Smoke poured out into the corridor.
Inside, the sharp, deliberate crack of a high-caliber handgun rang out. One of the gunmen stumbled back, blood spraying from his neck, and collapsed onto the Persian rug.
Declan was behind his desk, a sleek black semi-automatic pistol resting steadily in his grip. His face was devoid of fear—there was only an icy, demonic focus. But he was trapped. The desk blocked his lower body, and three more attackers were moving through the smoke, blind-firing into the room to suppress him.
"You're out of rounds, Graham!" shouted a tall hitman with a scarred jaw, raising his rifle. "Victor sold you out! The Rossys own this city now!"
Declan didn't flinch. His magazine was empty, locked back on the slide. He stared at the barrel of the rifle pointed at his forehead with pure, unadulterated contempt. "Then tell Marco he's paying double for a coward."
Narin didn't wait.
She grabbed a heavy, three-foot solid bronze statue of a blindfolded lady justice from the hallway display pedestal. Sweeping it into her arms, she sprinted into the office, coming up behind the scarred hitman.
With every ounce of rage and desperation in her body, she swung the heavy metal statue like a baseball bat.
The bronze base slammed square into the back of the hitman's skull. The sound was sickening. The man dropped like a sack of wet cement, his rifle clattering across the floor.
The third hitman spun around, eyes widening in shock at the sight of a maid in worn shoes holding a bloodied statue. "What the—"
"Declan!" Narin screamed.
Declan didn't hesitate. He grabbed a heavy crystal decanter from his desk and hurled it with terrifying force. It struck the third gunman flush in the face, shattering on impact and knocking the man off balance. Before the gunman could recover, Narin lunged forward and kicked his knee inward with all her weight. He crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain.
Silence descended on the smoke-filled office, broken only by the crackle of distant gunfire from the lower floors.
Declan stared at Narin. His grey eyes were wide, his breathing heavy, his knuckles white against the armrests of his wheelchair.
"You stupid, suicidal woman," he growled, his voice a ragged whisper. "I told you to stay in the kitchen."
"And I told you I need this job," Narin panted, dropping the bronze statue with a heavy thud. She wiped a line of blood from her cheek. "Victor betrayed you. The front gates are breached. We have to move right now."
Declan looked down at his useless legs, then back at her. The mask of the invulnerable mob boss cracked for a fraction of a second, revealing the dark, bitter truth beneath. "I can't run, Narin. Go. Take the service stairs. They don't care about you."
Narin grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, her grip so tight her knuckles turned white.
"I'm not leaving without my four thousand dollars," she said through gritted teeth. "Now where is the safe exit?"
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Declan stared at her, stunned into silence for the second time in three days. Then, a low, vicious smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Behind the bookcase," he said, pointing a steady finger toward the back wall. "Third panel from the left."
