Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Foyer
The darkness did not bring silence; it brought violence.
The deafening rattle of suppressed automatic gunfire tore through the heavy silence of the manor. Glass shattered in the gallery above—not the delicate sound of a champagne flute, but the explosive blow of armored plate-glass windows being breached by breaching charges.
“Down!” Alexander roared, throwing himself across the marble steps and tackling Grace to the floor just as a hail of 9mm rounds chewed through the wood of the pulpit where he had been standing seconds before.
The air filled with the caustic smell of gunpowder, pulverized plaster, and shredded flower petals.
“Vance!” Alexander shouted into his collar mic. “Report!”
Static hissed in his earpiece, followed by the breathless, gravelly voice of his security chief. “Sir! Perimeter breach at the north colonnade! They bypassed the external grid using an alpha-level override code! These aren’t mercenaries—they’re tactical commandos! They just cut the backup generators!”
“An alpha-level code?” Alexander grabbed Grace by the wrist, pulling her behind the heavy mahogany altar table. “Only three people hold that code. Me, you, and...”
He glanced through the gloom toward the spot where Victoria had been standing.
The altar was empty. Victoria had vanished.
“Grace, stay low,” Alexander ordered, his voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through his veins. He reached beneath the communion rail and pressed his thumb against a concealed biometric scanner hidden in the carved oak paneling.
A panel slid open with a whisper of hydraulics. Inside rested a customized SIG Sauer P320 with a sound suppressor and two spare magazines. Alexander racked the slide with practiced efficiency.
“Mr. Reid—Alexander—” Grace whimpered, her fingers digging into his sleeve. “I don't understand. If I’m... if what she said is true, why didn't my mother tell me? Why leave me in the dark?”
“Because Marcus Reid made enemies on three continents,” Alexander whispered, scanning the pitch-black ballroom through night-vision optics he pulled from the hidden compartment. “Ignorance was the only armor he could give you. But someone cracked his ledger.”
Green phosphorescent light washed over Alexander’s field of vision as he switched on the NVGs.
Across the ballroom, four figures in black tactical gear were moving down the center aisle, their weapons raised in a low-ready sweep. They weren't checking the pews for Alexander. Their rifle barrels were angled toward the altar, their thermal sights scanning for a small female heat signature.
*They don't care about the billionaire,* Alexander realized with bitter clarity. *They are here to scrub the bloodline.*
“Listen to me carefully,” Alexander breathed into Grace’s ear. “Beneath the altar, there’s a service hatch leading to the wine cellars. It connects to the old underground bootlegger tunnels running toward the boathouse. When I engage, you crawl through that hatch. Do not look back. Do not stop.”
“No! Don’t leave me!” Grace gasped, her eyes wide with terror.
“I’m not leaving you. I’m drawing their fire. Go!”
Alexander rolled from behind the mahogany altar, coming up on one knee. He acquired the first target—the point man stepping over the shattered porcelain urn—and squeezed the trigger twice.
*Pfft-pfft.*
The rounds struck the point man in the high thoracic cavity, dropping him instantly to the marble floor.
The other three operatives reacted with mechanical precision, immediately opening fire on Alexander’s position. Wood splinters flew like shrapnel as high-caliber rounds obliterated the heavy altar.
Alexander scrambled laterally, vaulting over the front pew and landing in the aisle. He fired three rounds through the wooden bench, striking a second commando in the hip and thigh, sending him crashing into the floral displays.
From behind him, Alexander heard the metallic click of the service hatch opening and closing. Grace was through.
He reloaded on the move, darting into the shadow of the gallery colonnade. But as he turned the corner toward the grand foyer, a heavy boot struck his chest with the force of a battering ram.
Alexander slammed against the wall, the breath driven violently from his lungs. The SIG Sauer was kicked from his grip, clattering across the floor.
A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim moonlight filtering through the shattered skylight.
It wasn't a mercenary.
It was Julian Reid—Alexander’s older cousin, the managing director of the Reid Family Trust, wearing a pristine tuxedo, an MP5 submachine gun resting casually in his hands.
Beside Julian stood Victoria, her white wedding dress smeared with dust and soot, holding an encrypted satellite uplink tablet.
May you like
“You always were too sentimental, Alexander,” Julian said with a cold, aristocratic chuckle. “Father always favored you, even after he ruined us by fathering that peasant girl in the woods.”
***
