Chapter 9 - THE SIEGE OF THE WEST WING
-9
Hours bled into the night.
The digital clock on the mahogany desk read 2:14 a.m.
Tessa had not left the West Wing. She had barricaded herself inside the library, watching the security monitors built into the wall panels. The screens showed feeds from the exterior gates, the perimeter gardens, and the main foyer. For hours, everything had been eerily quiet—the silence of a predator waiting in the tall grass.
Then, the monitor for the North Gate flickered.
A black van sped through the security checkpoint, smashing directly through the reinforced iron gates as if they were made of paper. Three more vehicles followed close behind, disgorging a dozen men dressed in black tactical gear, armed with assault rifles and wearing ski masks.
The Bratva had breached the estate.
Tessa’s breath hitched in her throat. Her hands shook so violently she could barely hold the remote control for the security system. She watched on the screen as the intruders swarmed the main entrance, blowing the heavy oak doors off their hinges with a localized breaching charge.
Shouts, screams, and the deafening stutter of automatic gunfire echoed faintly through the cavernous halls of the mansion. The domestic staff—cooks, maids, and gardeners—scattered into the shadows, fleeing for their lives as the Russian syndicate executed a violent, ruthless takeover.
Tessa stood up, backing away from the monitor as the sound of boots marching down the West Wing corridor grew closer.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Heavy, military-style boots stomping against the marble floor.
They were coming for the West Wing. They were coming for Victor Romano’s private sanctum.
Tessa’s instincts screamed at her to run, to hide in the panic room Victor had mentioned. But as she turned toward the hidden wall panel, a loud, thunderous explosion rocked the hallway outside the library doors.
The heavy oak doors shuddered violently as a breaching charge was slapped against the exterior lock.
Panic surged through her veins like liquid fire. She didn't have time to reach the panic room.
BOOM!
The library doors blew inward, showering the Persian rug in splinters of wood and thick, choking grey smoke. Two masked men in tactical gear stepped through the breach, their assault rifles raised, scanning the dark room with ruthless efficiency.
“Clear!” one of them barked in a harsh, Russian-accented voice.
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The second man lowered his rifle slightly, his eyes landing on Tessa standing frozen by the mahogany desk. A cruel, sadistic laugh escaped his lips from behind his ski mask.
“Well, look what we found,” the man sneer, stepping forward and reaching out a gloved hand to grab her arm. “The boss said kill everyone in the West Wing. Let’s start with the pretty little pet.”
