Read ahead to see what happens next.

9 - 15

The sound of splintering oak echoed through the grand foyer like a gunshot. Heavy, synchronized combat boots thundered across the marble floor as tactical operatives poured into the estate, their suppressed rifles raised and sweeping the dark corridors with tactical laser sights.

I stood silently in the shadows of the hallway outside Study Room B, pressing my back flat against the wood-paneled wall. My grip on the hunting knife was steady, every muscle in my body coiled like a steel spring.

“Sector one is clear! Moving to sector two!” a gruff voice barked over tactical radio comms.

Two operatives in full black ballistic armor jogged down the dimly lit hallway toward my position, their tactical flashlights cutting beams through the misty indoor air. They were moving with arrogant confidence, assuming an unarmed woman wouldn't pose a threat against elite mercenaries.

They were about to learn a very expensive lesson.

As the lead operative stepped past my blind spot, I struck. I lunged forward, grabbing the barrel of his rifle with one hand and driving the heavy pommel of my hunting knife directly into the side of his tactical helmet with blinding speed.

The man staggered backward, gasping for air, but before his partner could raise his weapon, I swept my leg behind his knees, sending him crashing hard onto the hardwood floor.

The second operative pivoted instantly, bringing his rifle barrel around to bear on my chest. I didn’t try to block the weapon. Instead, I ducked beneath his swing, slammed my elbow upward into his throat, and wrenched his tactical sidearm from its holster in a single fluid motion.

Click.

I pressed the barrel of the pistol directly against his chest plate, my eyes locking onto his through his dark visor. “Drop the rifle, or I take off your armor.”

The operative froze, his breathing ragged and shallow. Slowly, deliberately, he let his rifle clatter to the floor.

“Good choice,” I whispered.

Before he could react, I struck the side of his helmet with the heavy pistol grip, sending both men tumbling into unconsciousness. I grabbed their tactical comms headsets and dropped them into my pocket, slipping quickly into Study Room B and slamming the heavy oak door shut behind me.

Inside the study, Judge Harrington was frantically typing codes into an old-school mainframe terminal embedded in the wall, a green progress bar crawling slowly across the encrypted monitor.

“How much longer?” I asked, keeping my ear pressed against the door to listen for reinforcements.

“Forty percent!” Harrington shouted over the whirring fans of the terminal. “The secure packet containing Arthur’s journals and the financial ledger is uploading directly to the federal grand jury secure server. If they pull the plug now, we lose everything!”

Outside the door, heavy fists slammed against the wood, accompanied by a muffled voice shouting, “Door is reinforced! Bring up the breaching charge!”

Breaching charge. They weren't going to pick the lock. They were going to blow the room to pieces.

“Judge, you have thirty seconds,” I said, turning away from the door and scanning the study for improvised defenses. My eyes landed on the heavy velvet drapes covering the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rear cliffside garden.

I sprinted across the room, yanked the heavy velvet curtains off their brass rings, and piled them against the wooden study door, dousing them with a bottle of high-proof whiskey from the judge’s liquor cabinet.

“Elena, what are you doing?” Harrington gasped, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

“Making sure they take the scenic route,” I replied, striking a wooden match and dropping it onto the soaked fabric.

Flames erupted instantly, roaring upward in a brilliant wall of fire that blocked the doorway just as a thunderous explosion blew the wooden door inward in a shower of splintering shrapnel and white smoke.

Through the roaring wall of fire, tactical operatives shouted in confusion and pain, unable to cross the barrier as the flames licked hungrily at the ceiling.

“Ninety-five percent!” Harrington screamed over the roar of the fire. “Five seconds more...!”

Suddenly, the mainframe terminal beeped loudly. A bright green checkmark flashed across the screen, accompanied by the text: ‘TRANSMISSION COMPLETE. GRAND JURY DOCKET LOCKED AND SECURED.’

“It’s sent,” Harrington breathed, collapsing back into his leather chair, tears streaming down his face. “We did it, Elena. The grand jury has the files. Thomas can’t touch them now.”