Chapter 6 - Inside the Fortress
Upstairs in the west wing, the sound of gunfire echoed like distant thunder through the thick walls of the mansion.
Grace Miller woke instantly at the first pop of suppressed gunfire. She sat up in the armchair beside Noah and Lily’s beds, where she had spent the entire night reading by a small desk lamp.
The twins stirred, their eyes fluttering open in alarm. Lily let out a small, whimpering gasp, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
"Miss Grace?" Noah whispered, his voice trembling. "What’s that noise?"
Grace’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her face remained mask-like and calm. She stood up quickly, walking over to check the heavy brass lock on the nursery door. Outside, she could hear the sharp, tactical shouts of Mason Reed and his guards taking up defensive positions down the hall.
"It's just some men playing loud games downstairs, sweethearts," Grace said, forcing a bright, reassuring smile onto her face as she turned back to them. "You know how adults get when they don't get their way—they make a terrible mess and stomp their feet."
"Is my dad downstairs?" Lily asked, her large, dark eyes wide with fear.
"Your dad is downstairs taking care of business," Grace said firmly, walking back to the beds and pulling out a deck of colorful flashcards from her apron pocket. "Now, we have a deal. Raccoon story part four, remember? While the grownups sort out their noise outside, we’re going to figure out how the raccoon managed to get the mayor’s car keys."
Noah managed a weak, nervous giggle. "He... he hid in the back seat?"
"Better," Grace said, sitting down on the edge of Noah’s mattress. "He hid inside the mayor’s oversized winter coat hanging in the back of City Hall. When the mayor put the coat on to go to a very important meeting, the raccoon drove the car straight into a donut shop."
Lily burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that cut through the distant concussions of gunfire echoing from the foyer below.
Outside the heavy oak door, Mason Reed stood with three armed guards, his weapon raised. The sound of heavy boots stampeding up the grand staircase grew louder.
"Hold your positions," Mason whispered into his comms, sweat beading on his forehead. "If anyone breaches this hallway, turn them into red mist."
Downstairs in the grand foyer, the marble floor was slick with blood and littered with broken glass. Vincent Callahan stood in the center of the carnage, his face expressionless, his twin pistols smoking in his hands. Three of Verhoven’s mercenaries lay motionless on the floor around him.
From the grand staircase, Viktor Verhoven himself appeared, flanked by two heavily armored enforcers, a sadistic grin plastered across his scarred face.
"Well, well, Callahan," Verhoven sneered, raising his rifle. "Word on the street was your kids were dying and you lost your edge. Looks like the rumors were true. You're fighting alone."
Vincent slowly raised his pistols, his eyes locked onto Verhoven’s with a cold, terrifying intensity that made the rival boss hesitate for a fraction of a second.
"You walked into the wrong house, Viktor," Vincent said softly. "And you interrupted the wrong story."
Before Verhoven could pull his trigger, Vincent moved with blinding, lethal speed, firing two shots that dropped Verhoven’s enforcers instantly, followed by a third that shattered Verhoven’s right shoulder, sending his rifle clattering across the blood-stained marble.
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As Verhoven screamed, clutching his shattered shoulder and collapsing to his knees, Vincent walked slowly up to him, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol directly against Verhoven’s forehead.
"Tell your crew outside that if they don't drop their weapons in ten seconds, you won't live to see the sunset," Vincent whispered.
