Chapter 4 - THE WRATH OF BEACON HILL
The sound of breaking glass was deafening.
Before Derek could turn around, four dark-clad figures dropped through the shattered French windows of the ground-floor drawing room like shadows falling from a roof. Heavy tactical gear, suppressed submachine guns, and absolute, ruthless efficiency.
In less than three seconds, both patrol officers from Precinct 12 were disarmed, forced face-down onto the expensive Persian rug, their service pistols kicked across the floor, their arms wrenched behind their backs in agonizingly tight zip-ties.
Derek spun around, raising his Glock toward the new threat, but a heavy boot slammed directly into the back of his knee.
With a sharp crack, Derek’s leg buckled. He screamed, dropping to the marble floor, his Glock clattering away across the polished stone until it came to rest against Gabriel’s polished Italian leather shoe.
Gabriel stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He looked down at the gun, then slowly lifted his gaze to look at Derek, who was writhing on the floor, clutching his broken knee, gasping for air like a fish out of water.
"You broke my front door, Officer Lawson," Gabriel said softly, stepping off the bottom stair and walking slowly toward the groaning cop. "That was a mistake. You came into my house uninvited with a weapon drawn. That was a second mistake."
Derek looked up, sweat dripping into his eyes, his face twisted in a mixture of agony and pure, unadulterated terror. "You... you can't touch me. I'm a cop... the union... the department—"
"The department doesn't know you're here," Gabriel interrupted, his voice dropping into a flat, terrifying monotone. "And by the time they find your patrol car abandoned near the harbor tomorrow morning, your badge won't be worth the brass it's stamped on."
Gabriel reached down, grabbing Derek by the collar of his uniform shirt with one hand, lifting the grown man off the floor as if he weighed nothing more than a sack of laundry. Derek choked, clawing frantically at Gabriel’s thick wrists, his face turning blue.
"Mr. Ashford!"
The voice echoed down from the second-floor landing.
Gabriel paused, his hand tightening on Derek’s collar. He slowly turned his head to look up.
Harper was standing at the top of the grand staircase.
She had left the master suite. She was standing right at the edge of the banister, her dark hair falling in disarray around her shoulders, her eyes wide, blazing with a terrifying mix of fear and long-suppressed fury.
"Don't," Harper said, her voice ringing out clear and steady across the foyer.
Gabriel frowned, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers. "He hunted you down, Harper. He threatened you. He broke my property."
"I know," Harper said, taking a slow step down the stairs. "And if you kill him here, in your house, his blood stays on these floors forever. The police will never stop looking. The feds will tear this place apart. You'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder for a dead cop."
She stopped midway down the grand staircase, looking down at Derek, who was dangling like a broken toy in Gabriel’s grip.
"Don't let him drag you down into the mud," Harper whispered, her voice carrying a weight that made even the hardened enforcers standing near the door look away. "He's not worth your freedom, Gabriel. He's not worth anything."
Gabriel stared at her for a long, silent moment. The veins in his thick forearms stood out like coiled steel. The air between them was thick with violence, crackling with an energy that could have sparked a fire.
Then, slowly, a strange, grim expression softened the hard lines of his face.
He didn't drop Derek gently.
With a sudden, violent twist of his wrist, Gabriel hurled Derek’s body across the marble foyer. The corrupt cop crashed hard into the base of a massive marble pillar, his head bouncing off the stone with a sickening thud.
Derek slumped sideways, unconscious, blood pooling slowly from a split eyebrow onto the white marble.
Gabriel turned to his lead enforcer, a hulking man with a shaved head and a scar across his jaw named Viktor.
"Take him and his two little friends," Gabriel ordered, his voice cold and emotionless. "Dump them in the container yard down by the South Boston docks. Strip their badges, take their phones, and leave them with a message: If any of them ever come within five miles of Beacon Hill again, they won't wake up in a hospital."
"Yes, boss," Viktor grunted, motioning to the other guards.
Within ninety seconds, the foyer was cleared. The unconscious cops were hauled out through the shattered French doors like sacks of garbage, the blood on the floor was wiped away with practiced efficiency by Mrs. Morrison, and the heavy iron gates outside closed with a dull, heavy clang.
The Ashford residence returned to its eerie, expensive silence.
Only Harper remained, standing halfway down the grand staircase, her heart hammering against her ribs.
May you like
Gabriel walked slowly back to the foot of the stairs, wiping a speck of dust from his sleeve. He looked up at her, his slate-gray eyes no longer stormy, but calm, deep, and steady.
"Well," Gabriel said quietly. "The door is broken. Looks like you're going to have to stay a little longer, Harper."
