Chapter 7 - The Ambush & A Mother's Ferocity
The library door sealed shut with the heavy, hydraulic hiss of a bank vault lock just as a barrage of gunfire tore through the corridor below.
Inside the room, the birch fire still flickered, casting frantic shadows against the leather books.
Lucas and Noah were huddled together in the corner beneath a heavy mahogany desk, their hands clutched tightly in each other’s, their little faces pale with a terror no three-year-old should ever know.
“Mommy!” Lucas cried out, his voice cracking as he saw me burst into the room with Celeste.
I crossed the room in two strides, dropping to my knees on the Persian rug and pulling both of my boys into my chest. They buried their faces into the crook of my neck, their little bodies trembling so violently I could feel their heartbeats drumming against my ribs like trapped birds.
“I’m here, I’m here,” I whispered frantically, kissing their hair, their foreheads, rocking them back and forth. “You’re safe. Mommy’s right here. Daddy’s downstairs protecting us. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
Celeste stood near the heavy reinforced door, her ear pressed against the wood, listening to the war unfolding on the ground floor.
The sound of shattering glass, splintering oak, and the deafening, rhythmic clatter of automatic weapons echoed through the heating vents. Every blast vibrated through the floorboards.
“They aren't just street muscle,” Celeste said, her voice tight, the cool composure she had maintained all evening beginning to fray. “Listen to the rhythm of the fire. Controlled three-round bursts. Staggered advances. Victor brought in the Corsican mercenaries from the docks.”
“I don't care who he brought,” I hissed through gritted teeth, looking around the room with a wild, feral desperation.
My boys were here. Sam was in the adjoining medical suite, completely defenseless, an IV needle taped into his jugular, fighting for his life while mercenaries tore the house apart.
If they got past Dominic, they were going to kill my children.
I pulled myself out from beneath the desk, looking at Lucas and Noah. “Stay under this desk. Do not move. Do not make a sound, no matter what you hear. Do you understand me?”
Lucas swallowed hard, tears running down his cheeks, but he gave me a firm, resolute nod that looked so painfully like his father it nearly broke my heart. “I’ll protect Noah, Mommy.”
“Good boy,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.
I walked over to the fireplace, grabbed the heavy, solid-wrought-iron poker from the stand, and weighed it in my hands. It was three feet of solid, black iron with a pointed, heavy hook at the end.
Celeste stared at me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not dying on my knees in a corner,” I said, my voice dead, flat, and absolute.
Suddenly, the lights flickered twice and died.
The entire estate plunged into pitch blackness, save for the dying crimson glow of the fireplace embers.
The heavy thud of footsteps sounded outside in the second-floor corridor.
Not the rapid, light footwork of Marco. These were heavy, tactical combat boots, moving with disciplined, deliberate stealth.
*Click.*
The handle of the heavy reinforced door turned.
The electronic lock beeped twice—a low, mechanical failure whine.
“The power cut bypassed the magnetic relay,” Celeste whispered, backing away from the door toward the shadows of the bookshelves.
The door was kicked open with an explosive crash.
A man silhouetted against the dark hallway stepped into the room. He wore black tactical gear, a ballistic helmet, and night-vision goggles pushed up on his forehead. In his hands, he held a submachine gun with a tactical flashlight mounted beneath the barrel.
The blinding white beam swept across the room, illuminating the overturned chairs, the Persian rug, and then caught the small sneakers of Noah sticking out from beneath the mahogany desk.
The man’s weapon shifted downward, leveling directly at the desk.
He didn't get the chance to pull the trigger.
I came out of the shadows beside the door like an unchained demon.
Every ounce of rage, every tear I had cried in that freezing Providence apartment, every sleepless night I had spent watching Sam choke for air—I poured every atom of my soul into the heavy iron poker.
I swung it with both hands, using my entire body weight.
The pointed iron hook smashed into the side of the mercenary’s knee with a sickening, wet crunch of shattered bone.
The man let out a bloodcurdling howl of agony, his leg buckling beneath him as he collapsed sideways onto the floor, his weapon clattering across the hardwood.
Before he could reach for the sidearm on his vest, Celeste lunged from the shadows, swinging a heavy brass reading lamp like a club, smashing it directly across the bridge of his nose.
The man fell backward, dazed, blood pouring from his face.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped the poker, threw my weight onto his chest, grabbed the barrel of his dropped submachine gun, and pressed it directly beneath his chin.
“Move,” I snarled, my voice vibrating with a primal, bloodthirsty venom that shocked even myself, “and I will blow your head off your shoulders.”
The mercenary froze, his eyes wide with genuine terror as he stared up into the face of a mother who had crossed the threshold of humanity.
Footsteps sprinted down the hall.
“Maya!”
Dominic burst through the door, his pistol raised, his gray scrub top soaked in dark, arterial blood that clearly was not his own. Marco was right behind him, carrying a smoking combat shotgun.
Dominic’s eyes swept the room—taking in the fallen mercenary, the blood on the floor, Celeste holding the brass lamp, and me kneeling on a grown man’s chest with an automatic weapon pressed against his throat.
For a second, the legendary Dominic Russo looked completely speechlessly terrified of me.
“Maya...” Dominic breathed, lowering his weapon slowly.
“Is it clear?” I demanded, not taking my eyes off the man beneath me. “Dominic! Is the house clear?”
“It’s clear,” Dominic said, stepping forward quickly, kicking the mercenary’s hands away from his belt, while Marco dragged the groaning man out into the corridor by his tactical collar.
Dominic reached down, gently taking the heavy submachine gun from my trembling hands, and tossed it onto the sofa.
Then he pulled me up against his chest.
I collapsed into him, all the feral adrenaline draining out of my veins at once, leaving me shaking so violently my teeth were rattling. Dominic held me in an iron grip, his face buried in my neck, kissing my skin, his chest heaving with deep, jagged breaths.
“You’re safe,” Dominic murmured fiercely, his hands running through my hair, checking every inch of me for wounds. “You’re safe, Maya. It’s over. I swear to God, it’s over.”
From beneath the desk, two small voices piped up simultaneously.
“Daddy?”
Dominic pulled back from me, dropped to his knees on the rug, and opened his arms.
Lucas and Noah crawled out from beneath the desk and threw themselves into his chest, wrapping their arms around his neck, sobbing uncontrollably. Dominic scooped them both up, pressing their small faces against his cheeks, rocking them back and forth in the warm glow of the dying fire.
“I’ve got you,” Dominic choked out, his own tears finally falling freely, wetting the boys’ hair. “Daddy’s got you. No one is ever going to hurt you again.”
The door to the adjoining medical suite swung open.
Dr. Al-Mansoor stepped into the library. His lab coat was spattered with saline and dye, his hair disheveled, but across his tired, weathered face was a brilliant, triumphant smile.
“Mr. Russo! Ms. Vance!” the doctor called out, holding up a small glass vial filled with a clear, golden-hued liquid. “The Laurent sequencing worked. The protein synthesis is complete. We have the antibody bridge.”
I turned in Dominic’s arms, looking at the vial that held our son’s life.
“Sam?” I whispered.
May you like
“We start the infusion now,” Dr. Al-Mansoor said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. “Within twelve hours, his bone marrow will stabilize. Your boy is going to live.”
***
