Chapter 5 - Shadows at the Gate
The peace that had settled over the Mercer estate was shattered two weeks later, precisely at 2:14 a.m. on a moonless Tuesday.
Riley was fast asleep in the small, comfortable guest suite reserved for live-in medical staff on the second floor when a concussive boom rattled the double-paned windows.
She bolted upright in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
A second later, the estate’s automated security alarm began to wail—a shrill, ear-piercing Klaxon that cut through the night. Red emergency strobe lights flashed along the dark corridors.
Riley threw on her sneakers over her pajamas, grabbed her heavy canvas medical bag from the desk, and sprinted out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the sound of shattered glass and rapid, muffled gunfire echoed through the grand foyer.
Pop-pop-pop-pop.
Silenced submachine guns. Professional operatives.
“Jonah!” Riley gasped, her blood running cold.
She didn't head for the stairs; she knew the elevator was located near Jonah’s private wing, but in a security lockdown, power to the elevator would be automatically cut. She had to take the service stairs down to the ground floor.
As she rounded the corner toward the master wing, she ran straight into Frank Dorsey. The head of security was bleeding from a shallow graze across his temple, reloading a Glock magazine with frantic, practiced efficiency.
“Frank! What’s happening?” Riley demanded, grabbing his arm.
“Vance’s crew,” Frank snarled, his eyes wild with adrenaline. “A hit squad. They bypassed the perimeter sensors. They’re coming for the boss to settle a shipping dispute from six months ago.”
“Where is Jonah?”
“His room is fortified, but the heavy oak doors won’t hold against a breaching charge for more than three minutes! I have to secure the eastern perimeter before the backup units arrive—”
“Go!” Riley shouted, pushing him toward the stairs. “I’ll get him!”
“Riley, wait, it’s a suicide—”
She didn’t wait. She bolted down the corridor toward Jonah’s suite.
The heavy oak double doors of Jonah’s bedroom were splintered down the center, the smart-lock keypad hanging from exposed, sparking wires. Someone had planted a localized shaped charge to blow the hinges.
Riley threw herself through the shattered doorway.
The bedroom was dark, illuminated only by the frantic red flashes of the security strobes.
Jonah was out of his bed.
He was lying flat on his stomach on the hardwood floor near the bathroom threshold, dragging his dead weight forward with his bare hands, desperately trying to reach the heavy steel safe hidden behind the floor-length mirror where his custom Sig Sauer P226 tactical pistol was secured.
His legs trailed behind him uselessly, entirely unresponsive, his face flushed with agonizing exertion.
“Jonah!” Riley cried out, dropping to her knees beside him.
He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes wide with a terrifying mix of fury and helplessness.
“Get out of here, Riley!” Jonah roared, his voice cracking. “They’re clearing the rooms! Go through the terrace doors—”
“Shut up and let me help you!” she yelled back.
From the hallway came the heavy, calculated tread of combat boots approaching the breached doorway. A masked figure in tactical black gear stepped into the room, holding an HK MP5 submachine gun raised and ready to sweep the space.
Instinct took over.
Riley didn’t think. She didn’t calculate the risk.
She grabbed a heavy, brass-footed floor lamp from the bedside table, swung it with every ounce of furious strength she possessed, and hurled it directly at the operative’s head.
The brass base caught the intruder square in the chest, staggering him back a step and throwing his aim off. The man cursed loudly, swinging his barrel toward her—
Bang.
A deafening roar filled the bedroom.
The intruder froze, a look of utter shock crossing his masked face, before collapsing forward onto the carpet, a neat, smoking hole punched through his tactical vest.
Riley’s breath caught. She snapped her head around.
Behind them, flat on the floor with his back braced against the base of the heavy oak dresser, Jonah held his Sig Sauer in both hands. His arms were shaking violently from the recoil and nerve exhaustion, a thin wisp of gunsmoke curling lazily from the barrel.
He hadn't reached the safe in time. He had kept his backup piece locked in the hidden drawer of the bedside table all along.
“Clear,” Jonah rasped out, his chest heaving, his dark eyes locked onto the fallen operative.
“You—you shot him,” Riley breathed, her hands trembling as she stared at the gun in Jonah’s hand.
“I told you,” Jonah muttered, lowering the weapon with a grimace as his exhausted fingers finally gave out, letting the heavy pistol drop onto the rug. “Nobody gets past my front door without an invitation. And certainly nobody touches my people.”
My people.
The words hung in the charged air between them.
Before Riley could process the weight of them, heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway again, followed by Frank Dorsey shouting, “Perimeter secure! All units clear! Boss? Boss, report!”
Frank burst into the bedroom, rifle raised, taking in the carnage with a sharp nod of approval when he saw the neutralized threat on the floor.
May you like
Frank looked down at Jonah lying on the floor and Riley kneeling beside him.
“You two make quite a team,” Frank dryly observed, holstering his weapon. “Come on, boss. Let’s get you back into your chair before the local cops show up and ask awkward questions.”
