Chapter 7 - ASHES AND SECRETS
Thick black smoke poured through the shattered study windows, carrying the acrid stench of burning fuel and pulverized stone. Alarms blared throughout the mansion in ear-splitting shrieks. Gunfire erupted immediately outside—not the orderly, controlled bursts of Griffin’s perimeter guards, but the chaotic, thundering roar of automatic weapons ripping through the foyer.
Griffin was on his feet instantly. He grabbed Fay by the waist, shielding her body with his own as concrete dust rained down from the ceiling.
"Fay! Look at me!" Griffin barked, cupping her face with soot-stained hands. "Are you hit?"
"No! I'm okay!" she gasped, coughing through the haze.
"The vault behind the desk," Griffin said, pointing toward a steel door disguised behind the wood paneling. "Get inside. It locks from within. Not even C4 can crack it."
"I'm not leaving you!" Fay shouted over the deafening rattle of assault rifles coming up the hallway. "You said there's a rat inside! If your own men are turning on you, you won't make it to the staircase alone!"
Griffin grabbed an extra Glock from the cabinet, racked the slide, and shoved it firmly into her hands. "You know how to use this?"
"Point and squeeze," Fay said, her hands trembling violently, but her grip tightening around the checkered grip. "My father was a beat cop before the mob put him in a wheelchair. I know how to pull a trigger."
Griffin stared at her for a fraction of a second, something fierce and untamed blazing in his chest. "Stay behind me. If anyone wearing black tactical gear turns the corner, you shoot until the slide locks."
Griffin kicked the study door open, stepping into the corridor with his rifle raised.
The grandeur of the estate was gone, transformed into a slaughterhouse. Two of Griffin’s loyal guards lay dead on the marble stairs, brass casings rolling down the steps like golden coins. Coming up the grand staircase was a squad of six men in unmarked black uniforms, led by a tall, gray-haired man with a scarred neck and a cruel, jagged grin.
Dominic Vance.
Beside Vance stood Leo—Griffin’s trusted logistics capo, holding a smoking submachine gun.
"Well, well, Griffin," Vance’s gravelly voice boomed over the alarms, echoing through the burning hallway. "You always were too sentimental about your family. Leo here sold you out for five hundred grand and a ticket to Costa Rica."
Griffin didn't waste breath on words. He stepped into the open and opened fire.
The rifle bucked in Griffin’s hands, dropping the two point-men instantly. Vance dived behind the marble balustrade as bullets pulverized the stone into white powder. Fay crouched by the doorway, her ears ringing, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Leo swung his submachine gun toward Griffin’s exposed flank, his finger tightening on the trigger.
No.
Fay stepped out from the doorway, raised the heavy Glock with both hands, aimed straight at Leo’s chest, and pulled the trigger.
The gun kicked violently, sending a burst of flame into the hallway. The shot caught Leo high in the shoulder, spinning him backward off the mezzanine. He crashed through the glass chandelier below, tumbling into the ruin of the foyer.
Griffin fired two more precise shots, pinning Vance behind the central pillar. "Vance! Your men in Gary are surrounded by federal marshals right now! Celeste gave up your offshore accounts three hours ago!"
May you like
"You're bluffing, Hales!" Vance roared, firing blind around the pillar.
"Check your phone, old man!" Griffin yelled back, advancing down the hallway with lethal, steady strides. "You're a dead man walking!"
