Chapter 5 - The Siege of McLean
The red emergency strobe lights inside the McLean estate didn't sound sirens—they flashed in suffocating, silent crimson across the white marble walls.
Roman was on his feet in a fraction of a second, tapping his wrist console to activate the master lockdown protocols. Heavy steel shutters slammed down over the ground-floor windows with a definitive, mechanical thud.
“Stay here,” Roman commanded, his voice dark and absolute as he reached into his shoulder holster and pulled out a suppressed Sig Sauer P226 pistol.
“No,” Josephine said, standing up with startling speed. She didn't wait for his permission. She grabbed a heavy iron fireplace poker from the hearth of her guest room and checked the balance in her grip with practiced familiarity. “Sector Four is the timberline near the eastern guest cottage. It’s a blind spot in your exterior camera grid unless someone is actively sweeping it. Which means they know your layout.”
Roman stared at her for a single, hard heartbeat. He didn't have time to argue.
“Move,” he growled.
They raced down the dimly lit corridor toward the family panic room located in the reinforced core of the second floor. Viktor was already there, standing guard with an assault rifle, holding Oliver and Finn, who had been woken by the low hum of the lockdown.
“Daddy?” Finn cried, rubbing his eyes sleepily as Viktor ushered them inside the heavy vault door.
“Get inside,” Roman ordered, kneeling down to look his sons in the eyes. “Listen to Viktor. Do not make a sound. I’ll be right back.”
“Is Jo coming too?” Oliver asked, his voice trembling as he grabbed the edge of Josephine’s sleeve.
Josephine knelt beside him, her face softening instantly, all traces of the tactical operative melting away into maternal warmth. “I’m right here, buddy. I’m going to help your dad secure the house, and then we’re going right back to bed to finish our storybook. Okay?”
Oliver nodded, swallowing his tears.
When the heavy vault door hissed shut, locking the boys safely inside, Roman and Josephine turned back to the corridor.
“Viktor!” Roman barked into his lapel mic. “Status!”
“We have multiple armed units moving through the eastern treeline, Boss!” Viktor’s voice crackled over the comms, punctuated by the sharp crack of gunfire echoing from the courtyard below. “They’re not local mercs. They’re professional wet-work teams. Wearing unmarked tactical gear. They’ve breached the outer garage!”
“They’re after the main server terminal and the family vault,” Roman said, his jaw tightening into iron. “They want my ledgers and my blood.”
“They’ll have to go through us first,” Josephine stated coldly, raising her iron poker like a seasoned infantry soldier.
Roman looked at her—this curvy, soft-faced woman who baked cornbread and patched up teddy bears by day, and hunted apex predators by night. A strange, fierce heat flared in his chest, completely foreign to the cold, calculated detachment he usually maintained in combat.
“Stay behind me,” Roman ordered, flicking off the safety of his Sig Sauer.
“Don't be an idiot, Mr. DeLuca,” Josephine shot back, a dangerous smirk touching her lips. “You watch my six, and I’ll watch yours.”
Before Roman could argue, the ceiling above the grand staircase exploded in a shower of drywall and splintered wood.
Two masked operatives dropped from the skylight directly onto the landing ten feet ahead of them.
Combat erupted with terrifying speed.
The first operative raised a submachine gun, but Roman fired twice through the suppressor—thip, thip—dropping him instantly before his finger could squeeze the trigger.
The second operative swung a tactical combat knife, charging straight at Roman’s blind spot.
Before Roman could pivot, Josephine moved like a striking viper. She vaulted off the banister, using her momentum to bring the heavy iron poker down across the attacker’s wrist with a sickening crack. The knife clattered against the marble floor. Before the man could recover, she swept his legs out from under him, slammed his head against the balustrade, and knocked him out cold.
She landed in a crouch, breathing heavily, her eyes scanning the dark hallway for the next wave.
Roman lowered his pistol for a fraction of a second, staring at her in stunned silence.
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“You fight like a ghost,” Roman breathed.
“I told you,” she muttered, standing up and wiping dust from her wool sweater. “I learned on a ranch.”
