Chapter 3 - Blood on the Marble
3
The sharp, deafening cracks of suppressed automatic gunfire echoed through the vaulted corridors of Hawthorne Manor like thunderclaps. Smoke and pulverized drywall dust filled the air as the heavy oak study doors were kicked completely off their reinforced steel hinges, crashing violently onto the hardwood floor.
"Get down!" Raymond roared, lunging across the room and grabbing Beatrice by the collar of her evening gown, shoving her violently behind the heavy mahogany partner’s desk just as a barrage of high-caliber rounds chewed through the leather upholstery of the chair she had occupied a second earlier.
The two corporate security guards returned fire instantly, their Sig Sauer pistols barking rhythmically into the dark hallway. Muzzle flashes illuminated the swirling dust and smoke in strobe-like bursts.
"Status!" Raymond barked over the din of gunfire, his voice cutting through the chaos with absolute, chilling composure.
"Professional breach team, boss!" one of the guards yelled back, ducking behind a marble pillar as a ricochet sparked off the stone. "At least four operators in tactical gear! They're using military-spec suppressors and night-vision optics!"
Raymond’s mind raced at light-speed. Professional breach team? On a private, heavily guarded estate in Long Island? Perimeter security protocols would have flagged an intrusion within milliseconds unless...
Unless the team was already inside the estate’s perimeter security network. Which meant the infiltration had been coordinated from the inside.
He glanced across the room at Beatrice. She was cowering behind the desk, her face drained of all color, trembling uncontrollably as she clutched her diamond-studded evening bag to her chest. Her genuine terror wasn't an act. She hadn't expected an armed extraction team to storm the manor tonight. She thought she was playing a high-stakes corporate game; she didn't realize she had just invited executioners into her home.
"They're not here to negotiate," Raymond said, his jaw tightening into a hard line. He reached into his ankle holster, sliding his custom-engraved Walther PPK from its leather sheath. "They're here to sanitize the room."
"Sir, we need to move—the service stairs lead down to the reinforced panic room in the basement!" the guard shouted.
"No," Raymond countered sharply. "Elena and little Leo are still sitting in the Phantom parked under the portico. If these men breached the front entrance, the car is their primary target."
Before the guard could argue, a blinding flash grenade was tossed through the shattered transom above the doorway.
FLASH-BANG!
The ear-splitting detonation shook the foundations of the room, filling the air with searing white light and a deafening, high-pitched whine that temporarily crippled hearing and equilibrium.
Through the haze of smoke and ringing ears, heavy combat boots stepped across the shattered wooden threshold. Two men in matte-black tactical gear, wearing Kevlar helmets and night-vision monoculars, swept into the study with lethal, practiced precision.
Raymond didn't hesitate. Ignoring the blinding pain in his ears, he rolled out from behind the mahogany desk, raised his Walther PPK, and fired two rapid shots.
The lead operator jerked violently as a 9mm round caught him squarely in the ceramic plating of his chest rig, throwing him off balance. The second operator immediately pivoted his rifle toward Raymond, but before he could squeeze the trigger, Raymond’s second security guard lunged from behind the marble pillar, tackling the operative to the ground in a brutal, bone-crunching collision.
The two men grappled fiercely on the Persian rug, fists flying, knives flashing in the dim light, until a single muffled gunshot ended the struggle with finality.
Silence descended upon the smoke-filled study once more, broken only by the crackle of burning embers in the fireplace and the ragged breathing of the survivors.
Raymond rose slowly to his feet, his suit jacket singed, his hands steady as he kept his weapon aimed at the shattered doorway. He stepped over the fallen operative and looked out into the hallway.
Two more black-clad bodies lay motionless near the grand staircase, neutralized by the estate’s secondary automated defense grid—a secret subterranean security network Raymond had installed years ago, completely independent of the main house wiring.
Beatrice crawled out from behind the desk, her emerald gown stained with plaster dust and soot, her hair completely unraveled from its elegant chignon. She looked down at the dead men in tactical gear, her lips parting in a silent, horrified scream.
"Who... who are they?" she whimpered, looking up at Raymond as if seeing a monster for the first time. "I didn't... I didn't order this! I swear to God, Raymond, I only wanted the micro-drive to force you to renegotiate the board seats!"
Raymond looked down at his sister with a gaze so devoid of human warmth that it felt sub-zero.
"You didn't order them, Beatrice," Raymond said softly, walking over to the nearest dead operative and kneeling down to peel back the heavy ballistic collar of his tactical vest.
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Embroidered on the inner lining of the uniform was a small, crimson insignia Raymond recognized instantly—the crest of Vanguard Global Security, a private military contractor based out of Langley, Virginia, with deep ties to federal intelligence black-ops.
"They weren't your hit squad, Beatrice," Raymond whispered, standing up and staring down the dark, blood-stained hallway toward the grand staircase. "They were sent to silence anyone who touched Liam’s archive."
