Chapter 11 - The Breakout
Before Julian’s fingers could clear his lapel, Dominic stepped from behind the shadow of a pillar, a tactical shotgun leveled dead at Julian’s forehead. The metallic rack of the slide chambering a round was the only warning.
""Don't do it, Mr. Vance,"" Dominic muttered.
Julian froze, his hand half-submerged in his coat. The private mercenaries behind him reached for their holsters, but Agent Miller drew his service weapon, pointing it directly at the contractors.
""Federal agents! Drop your weapons! Everyone stand down right now!"" Miller bellowed, suddenly realizing he had been used as an unwitting pawn in a cartel war.
Chaos erupted in an instant. Julian didn't draw a gun—he drew a small, thumb-sized stun grenade and slammed it onto the marble floor.
A blinding flash and a concussive bang tore through the foyer, accompanied by a cloud of thick white phosphorus smoke. Clara screamed, covering her ears, but Vincent had already anticipated the move. He turned his broad back to the blast, shielding her tiny body completely, taking the brunt of the flying debris across his tailored coat.
Gunfire crackled through the smoke—Julian’s private contractors were shooting blindly toward the federal marshals to cover their retreat.
""Dominic! Get the marshals into the study!"" Vincent shouted over the din, keeping his head down and moving Clara rapidly toward the reinforced rear corridor.
Through the dense white smoke, Vincent caught a glimpse of Julian fleeing out the front doors toward the running helicopter, his camel-hair coat billowing behind him.
""You stay here with Lena,"" Vincent told Clara, setting her down inside the steel-doored communications bunker at the end of the hall. He looked into her terrified eyes. ""Do not move from this room. Uncle Vincent is going to finish this right now.""
Clara grabbed his thumb. ""Please don't let him take me.""
""Never,"" Vincent whispered. He kissed her forehead, closed the heavy vault door, and set the biometric lock with his palm.
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He turned back toward the foyer. His face was no longer that of an uncle; it was the face of a ruthless king whose castle had been breached. He picked up an abandoned assault rifle from the floor, kicked open the side terrace doors, and sprinted out into the howling wind of the courtyard.
The helicopter rotors were spinning at maximum velocity, lifting the skids two feet off the grass. Julian Vance was scrambling into the open passenger door, looking down with desperate triumph.
