Chapter 9 - Standing shoulder to shoulder with heavily armed enforcers as federal agents surround the upscale Manhattan club in the dead of night.
Suddenly, the red emergency klaxons inside the subterranean vault began to flash violently, casting a bloody hue across the concrete walls.
Marcus burst through the reinforced steel doors, his charcoal grey suit jacket rumpled and a submachine gun slung across his chest.
"Boss! We've got multiple unmarked black SUVs breaching the front perimeter gates; federal marshals and local tactical teams," Marcus reported fast.
"Did they come through the south loading dock or the front lobby?" Samuel asked without a single trace of panic in his voice.
"Both. And Viktor Vance's private mercenaries are mixed in with the federal unit; it's a corrupted raid," Marcus confirmed grimly.
Samuel stood up from his leather executive chair, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp white shirt with cold, calculating precision.
He reached into the open wall safe and pulled out a heavy tactical shoulder holster, strapping it securely over his tattooed chest.
Clara stepped back, her heart pounding against her ribs as the reality of her father's violent world crashed down around her.
"Stay right here in the vault behind the blast door, Clara; do not open it for anyone except me or Marcus," Samuel ordered firmly.
"I'm not hiding anymore, Samuel! That's my life out there they're trying to destroy!" Clara protested with fierce, unyielding determination.
May you like
Samuel paused, looking deeply into her dark eyes—eyes that mirrored his own stubborn refusal to ever bow down to tyranny.
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