The Ghost in the Apron

The grand foyer of Whitmore House was a cavern of shadows and moonlight. The guests had been herded into the ballroom, leaving the massive entryway eerily silent.

I moved along the second-floor indoor balcony, looking down over the intricate marble floor.

Arthur Sterling stood in the center of the room. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, looking more like a Wall Street banker than a treasonous warlord. Flanking him were four heavily armed mercenaries.

And kneeling on the marble floor, his hands zip-tied behind his back, was Ethan. A mercenary stood over him, the barrel of an assault rifle pressed against the back of his head. Ethan’s lip was bleeding, but his eyes were defiant, staring straight up at the balcony. He knew I was there.

"I know you're listening, Sarah!" Arthur's voice boomed, echoing off the high ceiling. "Or whatever name you're using these days. You have sixty seconds to walk down those stairs and hand over the drive, or the Whitmore heir gets a bullet in his skull. And then I burn this mansion to the ground with everyone inside."

I looked at Ethan. He shook his head minutely. Don't do it.

I pulled the black flash drive from my harness. I took a deep breath, stepping out from behind the marble pillar into plain view on the balcony.

"I have the drive, Arthur!" I shouted, holding it up.

Five rifles instantly pointed up at me. I didn't flinch.

"Bring it down," Arthur demanded, a cruel, triumphant smile spreading across his face.

"Let Ethan go first," I countered, resting my forearms against the balcony railing, keeping my gun hidden behind the stone balustrade.

"You aren't in a position to negotiate, operative," Arthur sneered. "Come down, or he dies right now."

I slowly walked down the sweeping, curved staircase. My eyes never left the mercenary holding the gun to Ethan's head. I calculated the distance, the windage, the reaction time. I had one shot to make this right.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, stopping exactly ten feet from Arthur.

"Toss it," Arthur commanded, extending his hand.

"You made a mistake coming here, Arthur," I said, my voice dead calm. "You broke the first rule Margaret Hale taught us. Never walk into a trap you haven't swept."

Arthur frowned. "What trap?"

"The one I set eleven months ago."

I didn't throw the drive. I dropped it directly onto the marble floor.

As Arthur's eyes instinctively followed the drive down, I moved.

I raised my Sig Sauer and fired a single, suppressed round. It struck the mercenary standing over Ethan directly in the shoulder joint, shattering his collarbone. He screamed, dropping his rifle.

In the same fraction of a second, Ethan threw his body weight backward, sweeping the legs of the mercenary next to him.

The room erupted into chaos.

Gunfire tore through the foyer, shattering the antique vases and chipping the marble pillars. I dove behind a massive oak credenza, laying down covering fire to keep Arthur's men pinned while Ethan scrambled to cover behind the central fountain.

"Kill her!" Arthur roared, diving behind a stone pillar.

Wood splintered around my head as bullets shredded my cover. I was outgunned, outnumbered, and my magazine was running low.

Suddenly, the massive front doors of the mansion exploded inward.

It wasn't the police.