Chapter 10 - SHADOWS ON THE WATER
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The red glint disappeared into the mist, but the knot in my stomach tightened into an iron ball.
I didn't waste a second.
I replaced the satellite receiver, turned on my heel, and marched straight into the security command room adjoining the den.
Michael was leaning over a bank of six high-definition monitors, watching the infrared thermal cameras sweep the estate’s perimeter.
"Michael," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in my veins.
He turned, surprised by the sharpness in my tone.
"What's wrong?"
"I saw a laser reflection across the north bay," I pointed out the window toward the dense pine ridge.
"Three hundred yards out. Just above the boat dock."
Michael didn't question me.
He immediately tapped the console, switching camera four to thermal imaging and zooming in on the dark ridge.
The screen flickered, shifting into shades of gray and neon orange.
Among the cool blue shadows of the pine trees, four distinct heat signatures were crouching near the water’s edge.
"Son of a bitch," Michael growled under his breath, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.
He snatched his tactical headset off the desk and clicked the channel open.
"All teams, this is Michael. We have intruders on the north shoreline. Thermal confirms four bogeys."
"Engage thermal scopes and move to intercept. Non-lethal if possible—I want to know who sent them."
A voice crackled through the static: "Team Two moving... wait—"
The audio was violently cut off by the muffled thud of a suppressed rifle shot, followed by a sickening splash in the water.
On monitor three, the camera feed abruptly dissolved into static snow.
"Team Two! Report!" Michael shouted into the mic.
Silence answered him.
Then monitor five went black.
"They're cutting our lines," Michael said, his face hardening as he pulled an assault rifle from the gun rack on the wall.
"They aren't just street thugs. These guys are ex-military contractors."
He shoved an encrypted radio into my hands and checked the magazine on his weapon with a sharp snap.
"Hannah, get upstairs. Get Mama into the panic room behind the pantry."
"Do not open that door for anyone except me or Luca."
"What about you?" I asked, fear gripping my throat.
"I'm going to buy you five minutes," Michael said, cocking the rifle.
"Go! Now!"
I sprinted up the timber stairs, my heart pounding in my ears like a war drum.
I burst into the master bedroom where Teresa was sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching her rosary beads in the dim light.
"Hannah? What's that noise?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"We have to move, Mrs. Moretti. Right now."
I grabbed her arm, helping her to her feet, and led her out into the hallway.
Just as our feet touched the landing, the power to the entire lodge cut out with a heavy thud, plunging the house into pitch-black darkness.
Below us, in the great room, the heavy cedar front doors were breached with a deafening blast that shook the floor beneath our feet.
Gunfire erupted in the lower hall—loud, chaotic, and terrifying.
Michael’s rifle boomed in rhythmic, thunderous bursts, answered by the rapid-fire chatter of suppressed submachine guns.
"Upstairs! Clear the second floor!" a man’s harsh voice barked from the darkness below.
"The Bellini girl wants the old woman alive for the trade, but kill the maid!"
The stairs were cut off.
We couldn't reach the pantry panic room on the ground floor.
"Come on!" I whispered frantically, pulling Teresa down the long second-floor gallery toward the rear balcony overlooking the boat slip.
Teresa was breathing heavily, her frail legs struggling to keep pace, but she didn't complain.
"Hannah... leave me," Teresa gasped in the dark.
"They only want me to force Luca into surrendering."
"I am not leaving you," I hissed, pushing her into the small storage closet at the end of the hall that housed the service dumbwaiter.
The dumbwaiter was an old mechanical lift used to send firewood and laundry down to the lower cellar.
It was narrow, made of reinforced steel, and operated by a manual counterweight pulley system.
"Get in, Mrs. Moretti," I instructed, opening the metal hatch.
"It goes straight to the wine cellar beneath the lodge."
"There's an exterior hatch leading to the boat dock."
"What about you, child?" Teresa cried, tears spilling over her cheeks as she gripped my forearms.
"There isn't room for both of us."
"I'll take the service stairs on the other side and meet you at the dock."
"Hannah, please—"
"Get in, Teresa! For Luca!"
The mention of her son’s name gave her the strength she needed.
She climbed into the small metal compartment, curling her body tightly.
I pulled the heavy release lever, and the counterweights hummed softly as the dumbwaiter descended smoothly into the darkness below.
The moment the cables stopped moving, heavy boots pounded against the wooden floorboards of the gallery.
A tactical flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating the doorway of the storage room.
"She went down the hall!" a mercenary shouted.
I ducked behind the heavy oak door just as two men in dark tactical uniforms rounded the corner, their weapon lights blindingly bright.
One of them saw the open dumbwaiter shaft.
"The old woman went down the chute! Head to the basement!"
The second man paused, his flashlight sweeping the shadows behind the door.
The beam hit my face.
"Got the maid," he sneered, raising the barrel of his handgun.
Before he could pull the trigger, a thunderous roar tore through the house.
A black tactical SUV smashed through the exterior glass wall of the second-floor balcony, raining wood, glass, and steel onto the gallery floor.
The vehicle had launched off the rising timber terrace outside, its armored bumper crushing the first mercenary against the wall like an empty soda can.
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The driver’s door kicked open with violent force.
Luca Moretti stepped out into the swirling dust, a high-powered shotgun in his hands and cold, merciless slaughter in his eyes.
