Chapter 3 - The Basement Hatch
The emergency red lamps flickered on with a dull hum, bathing the grand hall in a bloody, crimson glow. Dominic didn't flinch. In the dark, his instincts took over. With smooth, practiced grace, he unlatched the dual tactical sling beneath his open shirt, sliding the newborns into the padded harness strapped tight against his broad torso. His hands were free now, and in a heartbeat, a suppressed Kimber 1911 appeared in his right palm.
"Stay behind me, Elena. Keep your head below my waistline," he commanded.
Elena nodded wordlessly, dropping low, her fingers instinctively grasping the edge of Dominic’s trousers for guidance in the dim red gloom. The scent of gunpowder drifted up through the floor grates, mingling with the heavy smell of polished oak and old wax.
Dominic moved silently down the west hallway toward the service staircase. Marcus was already waiting at the junction, kneeling beside an open access panel with his rifle raised. A dark trail of liquid was smeared across the brass threshold of the cellar door.
"Is that Clara?" Dominic whispered.
Marcus shook his head grimly. "Not Clara. It’s Vance Security guard Miller. Shot twice through the throat from behind. His sidearm is still in its holster. He knew whoever pulled the trigger."
Dominic stepped closer, his heavy tactical boots silent on the marble. He looked at the fallen guard. Miller had been on his personal security detail for five years, vetted through three background checks. A trusted man. But trust was currency, and someone had outbid him.
"Look at his hand," Elena whispered from behind Dominic’s shoulder.
Dominic aimed the weapon-mounted flashlight down. Clutched in Miller’s stiffening left hand was a crumpled piece of torn paper. Dominic leaned down and prized the scrap free. Written on it in smeared ink was a sequence of coordinates and a single word written in Russian: Cousin.
May you like
Dominic froze. The ink on his neck seemed to burn. There was only one person in his circle who used that title in private correspondence.
Before he could speak, a sharp metallic click echoed from the dumbwaiter shaft directly above their heads.
