Chapter 5 - Poison in the Fortress
Saturday night brought the storm to a head.
The Atlantic tempest battered the cliffs below Falcone Manor with eighty-mile-an-hour winds. Giant waves crashed against the black rocks, sending salt spray rattling against the high glass windows of the estate.
At 11:00 p.m., Maeve was in the primary library, restoring old leather-bound books to their high shelves using a wooden rolling ladder.
The house was quiet. The brothers were scattered across the property—Declan inspecting the gate house, Gabriel running communications in the basement, and Roman reviewing contracts in his study.
Suddenly, the lights flickered three times and died completely.
The hum of the HVAC system cut out. The house plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness, save for the wild flashes of lightning illuminating the rain-streaked windows.
Maeve held tightly to the rungs of the wooden ladder, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Clack-clack.
The emergency diesel generators failed to kick in.
In a house worth forty million dollars, equiped with state-of-the-art security, the backup power didn't fail by accident.
Maeve slid down the ladder quietly, her boots making no sound on the thick Persian rug. She pulled her penlight from her apron, keeping the beam shielded with her thumb so it emitted only a dull red glow.
BANG!
A heavy explosion echoed from the north wing—the location of the main security gate and power distribution panel.
Sirens began to wail, thin and high-pitched, powered by local battery backups, before being abruptly cut short.
Maeve backed into the shadow of a large floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
Footsteps—heavy, tactical boots—echoed down the marble hallway outside the library.
"Clear the ground floor!" a harsh, unfamiliar voice barked in the darkness. "Lorenzo wants the triplets dead before the cops get through the storm blockade! Check every room!"
The Moretti family had arrived.
Maeve felt a wave of cold terror wash over her. This wasn't psychological warfare. This wasn't verbal cruelty or broken whiskey glasses. This was an armed invasion by men who executed servants just to clear line-of-sight.
She ducked low, crawling behind the heavy oak desk near the center of the room.
The library doors swung open. Two flashlights cut through the darkness, their bright white beams sweeping across the leather chairs, the bookshelves, and the desk.
"Nothing in here," one intruder growled, his submachine gun held at the ready. "Check the upper level."
"Wait," the second man said, stopping near the hearth. "Look at the desk."
On the corner of the oak desk sat a fresh mug of tea, steam still rising softly into the chilly air.
"Someone was just in here," the gunman said, raising his weapon. "Search the corners!"
Maeve held her breath. Her lungs burned. She pressed her back against the wooden paneling beneath the desk knee-hole, pulling her legs tightly into her chest.
The heavy footsteps moved closer.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A flashlight beam danced across the floor inches from her scuffed boots.
Through the crack in the desk paneling, Maeve saw the barrel of a silenced submachine gun sweep past. The gunman was three feet away. In ten seconds, he would round the corner of the desk and find her trapped like a rat.
She looked around frantically in the dark.
Beside her knee sat a heavy, solid-brass antique globe stand weighing at least fifteen pounds.
Maeve didn't hesitate.
She reached out, grabbed the iron base of the globe stand, and swung it with everything she had straight out from beneath the desk.
CRACK!
The heavy brass base smashed directly into the gunman's kneecap.
The man let out a wet, agonized scream, his leg buckling instantly as he collapsed onto the Persian rug, dropping his flashlight and weapon.
The second gunman turned, bringing his flashlight beam down toward the desk. "What the—"
Before he could raise his rifle, a tall silhouette materialized from the shadowy doorway behind him like an vengeful spirit.
Declan Falcone's scarred left arm wrapped around the second gunman's throat in a sleeper hold, while his right hand drove a combat knife straight upward beneath the man's ribs.
The gunman choked once, sagged in Declan's arms, and went still.
Declan dropped the body onto the rug, stepped over him, and grabbed the first gunman—the one holding his shattered knee—by the hair, driving his knee violently into the man's face, knocking him instantly unconscious.
Silence returned to the library, broken only by the sound of the storm outside and Declan's heavy, ragged breathing.
Declan dropped the second body, clicked on a tactical flashlight, and shone the beam beneath the oak desk.
Maeve sat there, clutching the heavy brass globe stand to her chest, her eyes wide, her hair wild, her dark eyes blazing with adrenaline.
Declan looked at the unconscious gunman with the shattered knee, then looked at Maeve.
May you like
A slow, terrifying grin spread across his blood-stained face.
"I told you," Declan whispered softly, offering his hand to pull her out from beneath the desk. "You're a natural-born killer, Maeve."
