Chapter 9 - Breaking the Chains
The central gallery was a hellscape of smoke, shattered marble, and flashing muzzle lights.
Julian Moretti—a cruel, forty-year-old sociopath with slicked-back hair and a diamond stud in his ear—stood at the top of the grand staircase, holding a gold-plated assault rifle, flanked by a dozen heavily armed mercenaries.
"MERCER!" Julian screamed over the sound of automatic fire, his voice echoing maniacally off the high ceilings. "COME OUT, YOU OLD DOG! I BROUGHT YOUR FATHER'S REGARDS!"
Damon didn't shout back. He moved like a shadow through the side corridors, using his intimate knowledge of the estate’s architecture to flank the attackers.
Brinley followed two steps behind him, her boots silent on the carpet, clutching the small 9mm pistol against her ribs. In her left hand, tucked securely inside her wool coat, was Buttons.
Damon reached the archway overlooking the stairwell. He glanced at Reggie, who was crouched behind a overturned marble statue, bleeding from a shoulder wound, laying down covering fire.
"Damon!" Reggie yelled over the gunfire. "There are six more coming up the east service lift!"
"I've got the lift!" Brinley called out before Damon could stop her.
She sprinted down the narrow east corridor toward the service lift. She knew from her mother's stories that the east lift was a choke point—a single narrow shaft with an iron lattice door.
Two mercenaries burst out of the service lift, weapons raised.
Brinley didn't hesitate. She raised the 9mm pistol with both hands, aiming for the narrow opening of the lift, and pulled the trigger three times.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The shots echoed loudly in the narrow stone corridor. The lead mercenary collapsed backward into the lift, knocking his partner over, jamming the iron door shut.
Brinley slammed the manual override lever on the wall, sending the lift plummeting three stories down into the subterranean vaults, locking the secondary doors behind it.
She stood panted in the smoky hall, her hands trembling, the smell of gunpowder sharp in her nose. She had done it. She had secured the flank.
Meanwhile, in the grand gallery, Damon stepped out from behind the stone pillar directly behind Julian Moretti.
"Julian," Damon said softly.
Julian spun around, raising his gold-plated rifle—but Damon was faster.
BOOM!
The heavy blast from Damon's shotgun tore through Julian’s rifle, shattering the weapon and sending Julian flying backward over the velvet rope of the landing. He crashed hard onto the marble floor below, screaming in agony as his ribs shattered.
The remaining mercenaries, seeing their leader broken and their assault flanked, panicked.
"FALL BACK! THE ESTATE IS RIGGED!" one of them screamed, dragging Julian’s bleeding body toward the shattered front entrance as Reggie’s surviving guards opened fire from the upper balconies.
Within five minutes, the roar of gunfire faded, replaced by the heavy, echoing silence of smoke and ruined stone.
Damon stood at the edge of the stairwell, his shotgun lowered, his white shirt torn and stained with soot. He turned slowly around, searching the smoke-filled gallery.
"Brinley!" he called out, his voice sharp with sudden panic. "BRINLEY!"
"I'm here," her voice came from the east archway.
She stepped out into the gallery, covered in plaster dust, holding the smoking 9mm pistol in one hand and the worn teddy bear in the other.
Damon let out a long, shuddering breath. He dropped his heavy shotgun onto the floorboards with a loud thud, walked over to her in four long strides, and pulled her into a fierce, crushing hug.
He wrapped his massive, scarred arms around her shoulders, burying his face into her hair, trembling with a relief that shook his entire body.
"You crazy, reckless girl," Damon whispered into her ear, his voice rough with unshed tears. "You could have been killed."
Brinley rested her face against his broad chest, feeling the deep, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.
"I told you," she whispered back, her arms wrapping around his waist. "I'm done running."
Reggie walked up the stairs slowly, leaning on his rifle, his face battered and blood-stained—but a wide, triumphant grin broke across his old features as he watched the lord of Providence holding the girl in yellow.
"The police will be here in ten minutes, Boss," Reggie said softly. "What do we do now?"
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Damon pulled back slowly, looking down into Brinley’s sky-blue eyes, then down at the one-eyed teddy bear tucked under her arm.
"Now," Damon said, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking through the scars on his face for the first time in twenty years, "we burn the files. All of them. The Mercer syndicate ends tonight."
