Chapter 9 - The Ghost Protocol
The contractor collapsed onto the shattered glass like a puppet whose strings had been severed.
Julian flinched, instinctively diving behind a structural concrete pillar as two more rounds punched through the room in rapid succession, tearing chunks out of the drywall and pinning his remaining two guards behind the terrace doorway.
“Sniper! Rooftop opposite, north face!” one of the contractors screamed into his radio, scrambling backwards onto the terrace.
Charlotte seized the distraction. She lunged forward, grabbed the fallen contractor’s sidearm from the floor, and rolled behind the cover of the grand piano alongside Vance and the Judge.
“Who the hell is on that roof?” Vance hissed, checking his weapon’s magazine while keeping an eye on the terrace. “That wasn't one of my team.”
Charlotte stared at the tactical display on the dead contractor’s forearm—a blue-lit GPS receiver blinking with encrypted radio frequencies. “It’s the second half of my father’s security contract,” she whispered. “The retainer didn't expire when he died. It transferred to me the moment I set foot on this property.”
Across the suite, Julian peeked out from behind the pillar, his eyes blazing with fury. “You think a mercenary with a rifle can save you? The local police perimeter is already sealed! The Governor signed the state emergency declaration ten minutes ago! In five minutes, this entire building will be declared an active terror zone!”
“Then you’d better hurry, Julian!” Charlotte called back, leveling the pistol across the top of the piano. “Because once the press gets past your roadblock, your little political dynasty is over!”
From down the corridor, the screech of metal-on-metal signaled the service lift opening again.
Footsteps approached—not tactical boots, but the frantic, erratic scuffle of high heels.
Victoria Sterling appeared in the doorway, her wedding dress torn at the hem, mascara streaking down her crimson-stained cheeks. In her trembling hands, she held a silver revolver—Arthur’s personal antique piece from the study downstairs.
“Julian!” Victoria screamed, her voice bordering on madness. “Where is your father? They have him in the basement! Those men in black... they arrested him!”
Julian looked at her, disgust washing over his face. “Get out of here, Victoria. You’re useless.”
“Useless?” Victoria shrieked, advancing into the room, oblivious to the broken glass shredding her satin shoes. “I gave you my family’s banking trust! I funded your campaign! You promised me I would be the First Lady of this state!”
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“You’re a pawn, Victoria,” Julian said coldly, turning his submachine gun toward his bride. “And pawns get sacrificed.”
He squeezed the trigger.
