Chapter 7 - The Last Stand
The hallway outside the master suite was choked with acrid grey smoke. The smell of cordite, burning wood, and scorched marble stung my eyes and made my throat burn.
I didn't hesitate. I sprinted down the carpeted corridor toward the master study, my bare feet pounding against the floorboards.
As I reached the threshold of the study, the mercenary standing over Dominic was just pulling the trigger.
Without thinking, I lunged forward, grabbing a heavy brass floor lamp from the corner of the hallway and swinging it with every ounce of fury, adrenaline, and maternal terror in my body.
CRACK!
The heavy brass base slammed squarely into the side of the mercenary's helmet. He let out a choked gasp, his rifle discharging harmlessly into the ceiling, before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed sideways onto the ruined Persian rug.
The second mercenary whipped around, his eyes widening in shock as he saw me standing there with the dented lamp.
He raised his pistol toward my chest.
Bang.
A single, deafening shot echoed through the study. But it didn't come from the mercenary's gun.
From the floor behind the desk, Dominic—moving with the blinding, lethal speed of a striking viper—had drawn a secondary backup snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster.
The bullet caught the second mercenary square in the shoulder, spinning him around and dropping him hard to the floor.
Silence slammed back into the room, broken only by the crackle of a small fire burning in the hallway bookcase and the ragged, heavy breathing of the two of us.
Dominic slowly pushed himself up from the floor, blood dripping from his temple, his dark sweater torn across the shoulder. He looked at the fallen mercenaries, then slowly turned his blazing golden-brown eyes toward me.
"Clara," he breathed, his voice raw and disbelieving. "What in God's name are you doing out of the panic room?"
"I wasn't going to let them kill you," I panted, dropping the dented brass lamp to the floor.
Dominic crossed the room in two long strides, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me against his chest with such force I thought my ribs would crack. He buried his face in my neck, his strong arms wrapping around me as if he were trying to weld my body into his own to keep me safe from the falling sky.
"You're an idiot," he whispered fiercely against my skin, his voice trembling for the first time since I had met him. "A beautiful, reckless, stubborn idiot."
"We don't have time for a romantic evaluation, Dominic," I said, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. "Victor Vance is standing in the courtyard. I saw him on the security monitors."
Dominic's face hardened back into absolute, lethal granite. He wiped the blood from his temple with the back of his hand, cocking the revolver with a sharp, metallic click.
"Stay here," he commanded.
"Like hell I'm staying here," I snapped, grabbing a heavy hunting knife from the display case behind the desk. "You started this war by hiding the truth from me. Now you finish it with your wife standing right beside you."
Dominic stared at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, a dark, dangerous, fiercely proud smile cut across his scarred face.
"Alright, Mrs. Vain," he murmured. "Let'يند go hunt a ghost."
Together, side by side, we walked out through the shattered glass doors of the study into the smoke-filled courtyard.
Victor Vance was waiting by the stone fountain, his grey trench coat fluttering in the coastal wind, flanked by four remaining guards with raised weapons.
When he saw Dominic step out of the smoke, followed closely by me, his cold, aristocratic smile faltered.
"Dominic," Victor sneered, raising his walking cane like a sword. "I must admit, your security is overrated. It took less than ten minutes to burn your little empire to the ground."
"You didn't burn an empire, Victor," Dominic said, his voice carrying across the courtyard with the chilling clarity of a death sentence. "You walked into a slaughterhouse."
Before Victor could raise his hand to give the order to fire, the sharp, rhythmic roar of heavy rotors beat against the sky above us.
Three matte-black tactical helicopters crested the jagged cliffs behind the estate, descending rapidly, their powerful searchlights blinding Vance’s men instantly.
From the belly of the lead chopper, a dozen heavily armed Vain syndicate enforcers dropped onto the lawn, surrounding Vance’s guards before they could even aim their rifles.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Twelve assault rifles clicked simultaneously, pointed directly at Victor Vance’s chest.
Vance’s face turned the color of chalk. The arrogant, untouchable syndicate boss looked around him in sudden, blind panic as he realized his extraction route was cut off and his men were completely outmatched.
Dominic walked slowly toward him, his boots crunching on the broken gravel, the revolver hanging loosely in his right hand.
"You hunted my wife for five years," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper that made even Vance’s men take a step back. "You threatened my children. And you brought fire to my home."
"Dominic—wait," Vance stammered, raising his hands defensively. "We can make a deal—"
"The only deal you're going to make is with the devil," Dominic interrupted coldly.
He didn't shoot him. A bullet was too quick, too merciful for a man like Victor Vance. Instead, Dominic raised his fist and delivered a devastating, bone-cracking right hook straight to Vance’s jaw.
Vance collapsed onto the wet gravel, spitting blood and teeth, completely broken.
"Take him to the basement holding cells," Dominic commanded without looking back. "And make sure he has plenty of time to contemplate the next twenty years of his life in the dark."
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Two enforcers grabbed Vance by the arms, dragging him away across the lawn like a sack of garbage as he wept and screamed for mercy.
The courtyard slowly grew quiet, save for the hum of the idling helicopters overhead and the sound of the Pacific waves crashing against the rocks below.
