Chapter 8 - THE LION'S DEN
Mateo slipped through the shadows, moving with a silent agility born from years of dodging speeding luxury cars in crowded driveways. He bypassed the outer perimeter patrol by timing their sweeps, vaulting over a low stone wall, and dropping into the bustling service courtyard at the rear of the mansion.
It was chaotic. Catering staff in crisp white shirts and black aprons rushed back and forth, carrying trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Mateo grabbed an abandoned apron off a prep table, tied it around his waist, and picked up a heavy tray of empty glasses.
He took a deep breath, lowered his head, and walked straight through the swinging double doors into the mansion's massive kitchen.
No one looked twice. The head chef was screaming at a sous-chef, waiters were frantically plating caviar, and the noise was deafening. Mateo kept his eyes down, moving with purpose, projecting an aura of belonging. He slipped out of the kitchen and into the grand hallway.
The mansion was stunning, adorned with modern art and marble floors. Wealthy elites mingled, laughing, clinking glasses, completely unaware that the man hosting them had just orchestrated a terrorist attack.
Mateo navigated toward the rear of the house, looking for the telltale signs of a secure area: heavy doors, biometric scanners, or stationed guards. He found it at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. A massive steel door, flanked by two armed men in sharp suits. Cross’s men.
Mateo ducked behind a marble pillar, his heart hammering. He couldn't fight them. He needed them gone.
Suddenly, the lights in the mansion flickered, then died completely.
The music stopped. A collective gasp echoed from the ballroom. Red emergency lights bathed the corridor in a sinister glow. Thorne had made his move, cutting the main power grid.
"Perimeter breach! West wing!" a voice crackled over the guards' radios.
"Hold position," one of the guards commanded, drawing his weapon.
"Negative," the radio barked, the voice undeniably Agent Cross. "He's heavily armed. Converge on the west wing. Secure the generator."
The two guards exchanged a look, then bolted down the corridor, abandoning their post to join the hunt.
Mateo didn't waste a second. He sprinted to the steel door. It was secured by an electronic keypad, currently running on battery backup. Mateo pulled a small, heavy device from his pocket—a localized EMP emitter Thorne had grabbed from the safe house. Thorne had warned him it would fry the lock, but also trigger a silent alarm on Cross's personal device. He’d have two minutes, max.
He placed the emitter against the keypad and pressed the button. A sharp electrical zap echoed in the quiet hall. The keypad sparked, smoked, and the heavy door gave a satisfying click, unlatching.
Mateo pushed it open and slipped into the frigid, heavily air-conditioned server room. Floor-to-ceiling racks of hard drives hummed loudly. In the center of the room sat a terminal console.
Mateo rushed to the console, plugging the encrypted USB drive into the port. A progress bar popped up on the screen, crawling painfully slow.
10%... 20%...
Outside, the sounds of gunfire erupted. Thorne was engaging the guards, buying him time. The staccato pops of the Glock mixed with the heavier blasts of automatic rifles.
50%... 60%...
The door to the server room suddenly burst open.
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Mateo spun around. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the red emergency lights, was Agent Cross. His tuxedo was gone, replaced by tactical combat gear, a suppressed pistol leveled directly at Mateo's chest.
"I have to admit, valet," Cross said, his voice dripping with venomous calm. "You're much harder to kill than I anticipated."
