Chapter 63 - The Siege of the East Wing
The blast blew the library's double doors off their hinges, spraying splintered mahogany and pulverized plaster across the Persian rugs. Thorne fired three controlled bursts into the swirling smoke, the muzzle flashes illuminating figures in unmarked black tactical gear emerging from the shattered floor cavity.
"Fall back to the gallery!" Ryan roared, dragging Claire by the arm while Eve shielded Leo with a ballistic blanket pulled from the emergency chest.
Bullets chewed into the wall behind them, obliterating centuries of antique oil paintings. The faces of dead Vance patriarchs were shredded into canvas strips as heavy automatic fire swept through the grand corridor. Thorne returned fire with lethal efficiency, dropping two assailants at the threshold, but more were pouring through the breached cistern.
These were not street thugs or corporate fixers like the men Victoria had hired. These were high-tier private military contractors, moving in tight, synchronized fire teams, equipped with military-grade night vision and suppressors.
"They're not trying to kill us!" Eve shouted, ducking behind a marble pedestal as a round chipped the nose off a Roman bust. "They're suppressing us! They want the baby!"
"Over my corpse," Ryan hissed. He drew the compact Glock 19 concealed beneath his jacket, stepped out from behind an arched pillar, and put two rounds center-mass into a mercenary attempting to flank them along the exterior conservatory wall. The man dropped without a sound.
Claire was breathing in rapid, shallow bursts, her eyes wild with primal maternal fury. "Ryan, the vault won't hold them if they have Julian's biometric overrides! He programmed the security firmware!"
"Then we don't go to the vault," Ryan said, his eyes scanning the smoke-choked corridor. "We go to the helipad on the north bluff."
"The harbor is locked down," Thorne yelled over the din of incoming gunfire, ducking as a volley chewed into the doorframe above his head. "They've got radar-guided surface-to-air coverage from that freighter at Pier 42! Anything that lifts off from this estate will be blown out of the sky before it clears the tree line!"
"Then we don't fly," Ryan countered. "Thorne, where is the armored Suburban?"
"Sub-basement garage two," Thorne said, reloading with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Behind the blast gates. But the main driveway is choked with their blocking vehicles."
"We're not taking the driveway," Ryan said. He grabbed Claire’s hand, pulling her down the service stairs leading toward the wine cellars. "We're taking the seawall service road. Eve, get the baby's emergency medical satchel."
They plunged down the narrow stone stairs into the subterranean chill of the manor's lower levels. The scent of damp earth, aged oak, and gunpowder was suffocating. Above them, the continuous rattle of gunfire confirmed that the estate's private perimeter guards were being systematically overwhelmed by Julian's private army.
As they reached the heavy iron door of garage two, Ryan slammed his palm against the auxiliary biometric panel. The light flared red: **ACCESS DENIED - OVERRIDE BY MASTER CITIZEN 01.**
"He's locked down the local subnet," Eve cursed, hammering the steel casing with the butt of her flashlight. "He has complete administrative access!"
From the shadows behind them, at the end of the long vaulted brick corridor of the wine cellar, a slow, metallic scraping sound echoed.
A tall, gaunt figure emerged from the darkness. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal coat that hung loosely over a frame ravaged by years of experimental medical treatments. His skin was translucent, pale as skimmed milk, and his left eye was clouded over with a milky cataract. But the aristocratic curve of the jaw, the mocking tilt of the lips, were identical to the oil portrait hanging in the great hall above.
Julian Vance smiled, leaning heavily on a carbon-fiber cane that concealed a stainless-steel syringe mechanism at its tip.
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"Hello, little brother," Julian said, his breathing whistling through his damaged airway. "Did you really think Father loved you best?"
***
