Chapter 8 - The Siege of the East Wing
While I sprinted upstairs to wake my mother and lock us inside the master suite's safe room, the ground floor of the Graves Estate erupted into controlled, lethal chaos.
Nathaniel walked out into the central foyer just as Arthur and four heavy tactical guards rushed in from the staff quarters, their weapons drawn and night-vision visors lowered.
"Boss!" Arthur reported softly. "The eastern perimeter silent alarm triggered. Primary power to the basement grid was severed from the main box."
"They brought liquid accelerant, Arthur," Nathaniel said, his voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "Julian wants to burn the east wing with my daughter inside. They are currently breaking through the basement door."
Arthur’s eyes flared with rage. "Rules of engagement, Mr. Graves?"
"No one leaves this estate alive unless they are on their knees in handcuffs," Nathaniel commanded. "Seal the sub-level exits. Cut the power to the basement so they are blind, and sweep the sector."
"Yes, sir!" Arthur gestured to his men, and the tactical squad moved down the marble hallway with silent, military precision.
Down in the pitch-black basement, Boris and his second-in-command had successfully melted the steel lock on the archive door. They dragged two heavy canisters of gasoline inside, preparing to douse the wooden support beams and the electrical wiring running up to the east wing bedrooms.
"Hurry up!" Boris muttered to his partner, pulling a tactical lighter from his pocket. "Set the timer for three minutes. We need to be over the east wall before the second floor catches fire."
Suddenly, the heavy steel door behind them slammed shut with a deafening CLANG.
The magnetic locks engaged instantly, sealing the basement room like a vault.
Boris spun around, raising his suppressed pistol toward the darkness. "Who's there?!"
A heavy spotlight mounted on the ceiling burst to life, blinding both intruders with ten thousand lumens of brilliant white light.
"Drop your weapons!" Arthur’s voice boomed through the hidden intercom system. "You are trespassing on private property! Surrender immediately!"
Boris cursed, firing three wild shots into the overhead spotlight, shattering the glass and plunging the room back into shadows. "Shoot the lock! Work the door!" he screamed to his partner.
His partner pulled a breaching charge from his bag and slapped it onto the steel door frame, lighting the fuse.
BOOM!
The explosion blew the steel door off its hinges, filling the hallway with smoke and fire. Boris and his partner scrambled through the smoke, sprinting up the narrow basement stairs into the ground-floor kitchen, desperate to reach their escape route through the rose garden.
As Boris burst through the kitchen doors, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing in the center of the dimly lit marble kitchen was Nathaniel Graves.
Nathaniel held no firearm, no tactical gear—just his dark suit, his silver-tipped cane holding the concealed steel blade, and an expression of pure, unadulterated judgment.
"Boris," Nathaniel said, recognizing his brother’s chief henchman instantly. "My brother pays you well to do his dirty work, doesn't he?"
Boris sneered, raising his silenced pistol directly at Nathaniel's chest. "It's over, old man! You should have stayed in mourning!"
Before Boris could pull the trigger, Nathaniel stepped forward with shocking, lightning-fast speed.
Using the heavy silver handle of his cane, Nathaniel struck Boris’s wrist with brutal precision, shattering the bone and sending the pistol flying across the marble floor.
Boris screamed in pain, but before he could recover, Nathaniel spun the cane, driving the butt of the handle hard into Boris’s sternum. The impact sent the massive henchman crashing backward into the kitchen island, shattering glass cabinets and collapsing onto the floor, gasping for air.
Arthur and three tactical guards burst into the kitchen, instantly pinning Boris’s partner to the ground and slamming heavy steel handcuffs onto both men's wrists.
Nathaniel stood over the groaning, bleeding henchman, stepping on his chest with his polished leather shoe.
"Where is my brother, Boris?" Nathaniel demanded, his blade hovering an inch from Boris’s throat.
"He's... he's at the penthouse..." Boris wheezed, blood dripping from his mouth. "He's preparing... preparing the forged documents for the emergency board meeting tomorrow... he thinks you're going to die tonight..."
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Nathaniel slowly retracted the blade into his cane with a quiet CLICK. He looked up at Arthur.
"Secure these men in the subterranean holding cells," Nathaniel commanded calmly. "And call our private helicopter team. We are going to Graves Tower."
