Chapter 8 - The Price of Bloodlines
""You always were remarkably resourceful, Clara,"" Marcus said, his tailored overcoat draped over his broad shoulders like a shroud. The dim emergency lights of the sub-basement cast deep shadows across his aristocratic face, highlighting a thin, victorious smile. Behind him, two armed mercenaries stood over the mansion’s master breaker box, their bolt cutters lying beside severed high-voltage cables.
Clara kept her hands raised, her body positioned rigidly in front of the bassinet where Leo’s breaths were growing softer, more spaced apart. ""You had your own cousin's house breached. You hired killers to murder an infant.""
""I took measures to protect the integrity of the Vance empire,"" Marcus said calmly, stepping forward until the cold steel of the revolver pressed directly against Clara's forehead. ""Arthur was weak. He was going to split our shipping assets across a dozen charitable foundations and hand the voting shares to an infant who wouldn't be able to sign a contract for two decades. Julian is a romantic fool who would have let the company bleed to honor Arthur's ghost.""
""The antidote,"" Clara demanded, her voice flat, devoid of fear. ""He has less than an hour.""
Marcus clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. ""There is no antidote, Clara. The formula contained a heavy dose of synthetic curare. It was designed to mimic sudden infant death syndrome so cleanly that no coroner outside of Zurich could detect the compound. By morning, Julian will be arrested for gross negligence and corporate treason, and I will be named sole guardian of the estate.""
A soft metallic click echoed from the dark air-conditioning duct directly above Marcus’s head.
Before Marcus could react, the metal grating tore free from the ceiling with a screech of shearing steel. Julian dropped down like an avenging fury, his full body weight slamming Marcus onto the concrete floor. The revolver fired wildly into the ceiling, the bullet ricocheting off the ventilation pipes as the two men rolled across the dusty floor.
The two mercenaries raised their weapons, but Clara was already moving. She snatched a heavy iron pipe wrench from the maintenance bench, driving it with brutal force into the knee of the nearest gunman. The man collapsed with a howl of agony, and Clara swept his rifle from the floor, leveling it at the second guard with terrifying precision.
""Drop it,"" Clara snarled, her finger tightening on the trigger, ""or I paint this wall with you.""
The guard froze, evaluating her stance, seeing the cold, trained murder in her eyes, and slowly lowered his weapon to the floorboards.
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On the concrete, Julian had Marcus pinned by his throat, his hands squeezing the silk tie until Marcus's face turned purple. ""Where is the counter-agent, Marcus? Where did you store the trial batches?""
Marcus wheezed, his eyes bulging as he forced out a strangled gasp. ""The... the St. Jude vault... box 404... it's already there.""
