Chapter 7 - The East Corridor
The east corridor was lined with ancestral portraits of the Vance family—men in nineteenth-century suits with ruthless eyes and gold pocket watches. Dominic knew every blind corner, every loose floorboard, and every recessed alcove. He slid behind a marble pillar just as a burst of automatic fire shredded the portraits into flying canvas strips.
Three operatives advanced in wedge formation, their night-vision goggles glowing green in the dim light. They moved with military efficiency, scanning low and high.
Dominic didn't wait for them to close the distance. He pivoted from behind the pillar, firing three rapid shots with terrifying accuracy. The lead soldier crumpled instantly, struck in the neck above his ballistic vest. The other two dove for cover behind the heavy oak credenzas, returning fire with frantic bursts that gouged deep furrows into the plastered walls.
Behind him, Elena pressed herself flat against the alcove wall, holding the compact pistol with both hands. Her heart pounded like a war drum against her ribs. She could hear the faint, sweet breathing of little Mia tucked against Dominic's chest. The juxtaposition of absolute innocence and lethal slaughter made her blood run cold.
"Elena," Dominic whispered, not looking back as he reloaded his magazine with a single flick of his wrist. "When I move, you run toward the hidden service elevator behind the bookshelf at the end of the hall. The code is 0-9-1-2."
"I'm not leaving you," she whispered back fiercely.
Dominic turned his head slightly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "You're not running to save yourself. You're opening the blast door from the control room. If you don't unlock it from the terminal inside, the vault won't seal, and Marcus will be slaughtered with the survivors."
Elena realized the weight of his command. She nodded once. "0-9-1-2."
"Go!" Dominic roared.
He broke cover, firing five suppressed rounds into the drywall where the second gunman was hiding, forcing the attackers into defensive recoil. Elena sprinted forward, her maid shoes skidding across marble covered in shattered glass. A stray round clipped the hem of her apron, but she didn't look down.
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She reached the mahogany bookshelf, slammed her fingers against the spine of the third leather volume, and punched the code into the keypad revealed behind it. The bookshelf popped open with a hiss of pneumatic seals.
Elena scrambled inside, but as she reached for the lever to close it, a gloved hand caught the door’s edge.
