Chapter 7 - The Trap in the Pantry
Julian deliberately dropped a heavy iron wrench down the service chute. The clang echoed violently through the copper pipes, rattling the pots in the main kitchen below.
"In the scullery," one of the private contractors barked, unholstering a silenced tactical pistol. "I'll flush them out."
"Take no chances," Ross commanded, retreating toward the safety of the foyer. "Make it clean."
The contractor pushed open the heavy oak door of the kitchen, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning the low shadows beneath the butcher-block counters. The floor was wet, gleaming under the faint emergency light. Assuming it was merely spilled sink water, he stepped forward aggressively.
His tactical boot hit the mixture of cooking oil and concentrated industrial surfactant that Clara had spread across the threshold.
His footing vanished instantly. The contractor crashed backward with bone-jarring force, the back of his tactical helmet slamming against the cast-iron stove. The silenced weapon went flying across the slick tiles.
Before the second guard could react from the doorway, Julian dropped from the laundry access hatch above, driving his full weight into the man's chest. They tumbled into the corridor, Julian using the raw, brutal leverage of bare-knuckle brawling to disarm him with two precise strikes to the radial nerve and solar plexus.
The guard collapsed, gasping for air. Julian rose, holding the contractor’s tactical radio, his tuxedo shirt torn, his dragon tattoo gleaming with sweat.
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Over the radio, Walter's voice crackled: "Unit One, report. Have you contained the asset?"
Julian keyed the mic. "Unit One is sleeping, Walter. I'm coming upstairs."
