Chapter 7 - The Ambush & The Lion’s Wrath
The air inside the panic room felt suddenly thin.
On the surveillance monitor, Victor Vale barked orders at his mercenaries. They dragged a heavy military-grade satchel toward the reinforced wall adjacent to the master suite—directly against the exterior bulkhead of our vault.
“Set the charges on the load-bearing pillar,” Vale’s voice crackled through the audio feed. His face was twisted with aristocratic rage, his silver hair disheveled. “If I don’t leave this city with the Cross empire, Gabriel will rule a pile of ash and three tiny coffins!”
“Mommy, look,” Leo pointed at the secondary monitor.
The service stairs door swung open behind Vale’s men.
Gabriel emerged from the darkness. He was bleeding from a graze along his temple, his white shirt shredded across his shoulder, soaked in crimson. But his eyes were wide, glowing with an unholy, terrifying madness. He had bypassed the elevator entirely, running up ten flights of stairs in heavy gear to reach us.
Before the mercenaries could turn, Gabriel fired.
Two shots rang out. The first mercenary crumpled instantly. The second managed to swing his rifle around, spraying the ceiling with lead as Gabriel closed the distance between them with inhuman speed. Gabriel grabbed the barrel of the weapon, driving his combat knife upward beneath the man’s tactical vest with sickening efficiency.
Victor Vale spun around, his face draining of all color. He grabbed the detonator in both hands, screaming hysterically. “Stay back, Gabriel! I’ll blow this entire tower into the street!”
Gabriel didn’t stop. He didn't even slow down.
“Gabriel, no!” I screamed at the monitor, banging my palms against the bulletproof glass.
Vale lunged for the satchel, his thumb pressing down on the detonator’s arming switch.
Gabriel leaped forward, tackling Vale to the marble floor just as the third mercenary, lying wounded on the carpet, raised a secondary sidearm.
*Crack.*
The bullet struck Gabriel in the side, tearing through the gap in his tactical vest.
A sharp, collective cry tore from my throat. “GABRIEL!”
Gabriel grunted, the impact driving him sideways, but he did not falter. He drove his elbow down into Victor Vale’s jaw with a sickening crack, shattering the man’s face. The detonator skittered across the floor, harmlessly sliding beneath an antique credenza.
Gabriel rolled onto his knees, drew his backup pistol, and fired a single round through the forehead of the wounded mercenary.
Silence slammed down over the corridor.
Victor Vale lay unconscious in a pool of his own blood. The mercenaries were dead. The smoke from the gunpowder curled lazily toward the ceiling sprinklers, mingling with the rain pouring in from the shattered terrace doors.
On the monitor, Gabriel remained on his knees. He pressed a hand against his bleeding side, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Blood was pooling beneath his knees, soaking through the ruined fabric of his trousers.
He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall for support. Leaving a trail of crimson handprints along the white paint, he dragged himself toward the concealed panic room.
A mechanical buzz sounded.
A weak, raspy voice came through the intercom speaker.
“Claire…”
I didn’t hesitate. I slapped the manual override lever. The pneumatic seals hissed, and the heavy vault door swung outward.
The smell of cordite, blood, and rain flooded the room.
Gabriel stood in the doorway. He looked like an archangel who had climbed his way out of hell. His face was pale as chalk, his chest heaving, his left side drenched in blood.
When his eyes found me, and then swept down to our three sons clinging to the blanket behind me, his knees finally gave out.
I surged forward, catching him beneath his shoulders before he hit the floor. The weight of his massive body nearly dragged me down, but I held on with every ounce of strength in my limbs, lowering him gently against the doorframe.
“I’m here,” I sobbed, tears pouring freely down my face as I pressed my hands against the wound in his ribs. The blood was warm, slick, pulsing between my fingers. “Gabriel, stay with me! Marco! Somebody call a medic!”
“They’re already… on the way,” Gabriel whispered, his voice fading. He reached up with trembling, bloodstained fingers, his touch grazing my lips, my cheek, my hair. “Did I… did I protect them, Claire? Were the monsters kept outside?”
Leo stepped out of the panic room. The five-year-old boy walked over, kneeling beside his father. He took Gabriel’s limp, bloodied hand in his two small ones, pressing the silver Saint Michael medallion against Gabriel’s palm.
“You’re the king,” Leo whispered, tears finally leaking from his stubborn gray-green eyes. “You kept us safe, Daddy.”
Gabriel’s breath hitched. A solitary tear carved a clean path through the soot and blood on his cheek.
“Daddy,” Gabriel repeated, as if tasting the word for the first time in an eternity. A broken, beautiful smile touched his lips. “My boy…”
His eyes rolled back, and his head slumped against my shoulder.
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“Gabriel!” I screamed, pressing down harder on his wound, burying my face in the curve of his neck. “Don't you dare leave me! Gabriel! Gabriel!”
***
