Chapter 7 - The Iron Corridor
Jack stripped Mercer of his phone, his vehicle keys, and the electronic gate pass tucked inside his breast pocket. He tied the doctor’s wrists and ankles with the heavy electrical cord from the bedside lamp, gagged him with a strip of bedsheet, and threw him into the wardrobe, locking the door behind him.
Elena was fading again. Her body was burning with a vicious fever, the wounds on her scalp inflamed and hot to the touch. She couldn't walk.
"Hang onto my neck, Elena," Jack ordered softly, hoisting her onto his back in a tight military fireman’s carry, securing her legs with his left arm while keeping his right hand free on the SIG Sauer. "No matter what happens, you don't let go."
"Jack... please leave me," she murmured weakly against his neck, her breath hot and ragged against his skin. "They’ll kill you... Liam has no soul left... he bought everyone..."
"I don't leave my people behind," Jack answered through gritted teeth. "Especially not you."
He moved down the corridor with absolute tactical discipline, sticking to the shadows, using the ornate marble pillars and decorative archways of the mansion for cover. From outside, through the tall arched windows of the grand foyer, he saw the sweep of high-powered tactical flashlights cutting through the drizzle of the midnight garden.
Liam had spared no expense. Blackwood Tactical was a private contractor firm made up of disgraced former cops and dishonorably discharged soldiers who operated as high-priced enforcers for the Vance family's shady corporate interests. Jack counted six men in black combat gear advancing up the driveway, carbines held in the low-ready position.
In the foyer, sitting comfortably on a velvet settee beneath a crystal chandelier, was Liam Vance.
His younger brother looked entirely different from the sickly boy Jack had said goodbye to eighteen months ago. Liam wore an expensive cashmere sweater, his cheeks flushed with color—color stolen directly from the dying woman strapped to Jack’s back. Liam was sipping an amber drink, watching the front doors with an amused, patient smile.
"Come on out, Jack," Liam called out, his voice echoing through the vaulted foyer. "Blackwood has thermal scopes. They know you're behind the dining room column. Put her down, walk out the back door, and I'll deposit two million into an offshore account in your name. You can start over in Belize. Buy a bar. Drink yourself to death. It’s what you were born to do."
Jack shifted his weight behind the marble pillar. He glanced up at the massive, two-ton iron-and-crystal chandelier suspended by a single steel cable directly above the center of the foyer floor where Liam sat.
Jack raised his handgun, taking a slow, measured breath.
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"I told you, Liam," Jack yelled back, his finger resting on the trigger. "The weak fulfill their purpose."
Jack fired two heavy-caliber rounds straight into the chandelier's ceiling mounting bracket.
