Chapter 4 - The Siege of Blackwood Manor
The lights across the thirty-acre Blackwood estate went out all at once.
Emergency red backup lighting flickered to life along the baseboards of the study, casting long, menacing shadows against the walls. The hum of the backup generators roared in the subterranean levels beneath us.
“Comms are dark,” Vance’s loyal men reported, checking their tactical radios. “They’re using a high-frequency military jammer. The outer gate guards aren't responding.”
Grant didn't blink. He turned to his remaining men. “Secure the upper floor. Prepare the iron shutters.”
“Wait,” I interrupted sharply.
Grant paused, turning to face me. “You have an opinion, Guard?”
“If you pull down the iron shutters, you lock us inside a target box,” I said, stepping toward the floor plan mounted on the wall. “They want us to lock down the ground floor because that forces us to concentrate our defense in the main foyer. But Tyler’s text said: The gate was never the real way inside.”
Ethan stepped beside me, his eyes tracking my finger as I pointed to the lower level of the blueprints. “The wine cellar,” he realized. “The old smuggling tunnel from the 1920s that leads to the riverbank.”
“Exactly,” I said. “They aren't breaching the gate. The gate breach is a diversion. They’re coming up through the cellar right beneath our feet.”
Grant stared at the blueprints, then looked at me with a sharp nod. “Ethan, take four men and go with her. Reynolds stays with me.”
Ethan pulled two custom tactical pistols from the wall safe behind the painting, handing one to me. The weight of the weapon was familiar, comforting. Our eyes met for a brief second—a quiet understanding passing between us. He wasn't looking at me like a client looking at a hired guard anymore. He was looking at an equal.
We descended the spiral stone staircase into the pitch-black depths of the wine cellar. The smell of aged oak, damp earth, and gunpowder hung heavy in the cold air.
I held up my hand, signaling the men to stop.
My photographic memory recalled the precise layout of the wine racks: twelve rows, eight feet high, made of solid iron and French oak.
Click. Click.
The sound of iron boots stepping onto wet stone echoed from the far end of the vault.
“They’re inside,” Ethan whispered near my ear, his warm breath fanning across my neck.
“On my count,” I whispered back. “We don't just stop them. We take their commander alive. We need the location of Tyler’s mother.”
I kicked over a heavy oak barrel filled with sand, sending it crashing down the stone steps.
“Contact!” a voice shouted in the dark.
Automatic gunfire erupted, chewing through the wooden wine racks, splintering oak and shattering century-old glass bottles. Red wine sprayed like blood across the cold stone floor.
I dropped low, sliding across the damp stone, coming up behind the second row of racks. Two Vance hitmen dressed in black tactical gear were advancing with night-vision goggles.
I fired twice—precise, lethal shots to their tactical vests’ shoulder seams, dropping them instantly.
Ethan moved like a shadow beside me. His combat style was ruthless, fluid, and devastatingly precise. Within two minutes, six Vance operatives lay disarmed and unconscious on the stone floor.
I lunged forward, tackling the squad leader before he could pull the pin on a fragmentation grenade. I slammed his wrist against the iron pillar, forcing him to drop the explosive, and pinned his head against the wet wall.
I ripped off his tactical helmet.
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It wasn't a Vance hitman.
It was an officer from Director Paul Whitaker’s private security agency.
