Chapter 7 - The West Wing Trap
The west wing of Whitmore House was usually shrouded in darkness, its antique furnishings draped in white linen sheets. Tonight, however, it served as a dark, silent labyrinth designed to catch a rat.
Marco and four armed guards crouched behind the heavy velvet drapes near the second-floor gallery. Down the hall, a single wall sconce flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the patterned wallpaper.
Dominic and Anna stood near the shadows of the secondary staircase, overlooking the corridor.
"He’s coming," Dominic whispered, his hand resting instinctively near the holster concealed beneath his jacket.
A faint, metallic click echoed from the far end of the hallway.
A figure clad in a dark tactical turtleneck and black gloves slipped silently through the service door, moving with the practiced stealth of a professional operator. He held a suppressed firearm low at his side, his eyes scanning the empty hallway for traps.
It was Vincent Moretti.
He moved toward the medical wing where Emily was supposedly recovering, completely unaware that the girl had already been safely relocated to the underground bunker.
Vincent raised his weapon, checking the corner of the room, and stepped forward.
Clack.
His boot heel caught a tripwire strung invisibly across the floorboards.
Instantly, bright floodlights slammed on from the ceiling overhead, blinding him with white glare.
"Drop the weapon, Vincent," Dominic’s voice boomed down the corridor, cold and absolute.
Vincent froze, snarling as he realized he had walked straight into an open-air cage. Instead of dropping his gun, he whipped his arm around, leveling the barrel straight toward the staircase where Dominic stood.
Before Vincent could squeeze the trigger, a blur of motion erupted from the shadows beside Dominic.
Anna moved with terrifying, fluid speed. She didn't hesitate or blink. In one seamless movement, she vaulted over the mahogany railing, dropped down onto the hallway carpet directly behind Vincent, and delivered a brutal, calculated strike to the back of his right elbow.
Crack.
Vincent screamed out in agony as his joint hyperextended violently, the suppressed pistol flying from his paralyzed fingers and clattering across the marble floor.
Before he could swing his left arm around, Anna hooked her leg behind his knee, sweeping his legs out from under him with physics-defying leverage. Vincent crashed hard onto the floor, the wind knocked completely out of his lungs.
Marco materialized from the shadows a second later, pressing the barrel of his shotgun against the back of Vincent’s neck. "Don't even twitch."
Silence crashed over the west wing.
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Dominic walked slowly down the stairs, his leather boots clicking rhythmically against the floor, until he stood over his writhing cousin. He looked down with cold, absolute detachment.
Then Dominic slowly turned his gaze toward Anna, who stood a few feet away, her breathing entirely regular, her posture straight, brushing a speck of dust off the sleeve of her cardigan as if she had just finished organizing a linen closet.
