Chapter 7 - Ambush at the Drake
Screams tore through the ballroom as six masked men in dark tactical gear stormed the entrance, raising automatic submachine guns.
“Down!” Ethan roared.
Before I could even process the command, Ethan’s arm slammed around my waist, lifting me off my feet and throwing both of us behind a massive overturned mahogany banquet table just as a hail of gunfire shattered the crystal chandeliers overhead.
Raining glass showered the floor like frozen tears. Women were shrieking, scrambling toward the kitchen service corridors. Men were crawling on their bellies under tables covered in white linens.
“Elena!” I screamed, struggling against Ethan’s grip. “Elena is out there!”
“Stay down!” Ethan commanded. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, revealing two custom holsters. He drew a polished silver semi-automatic pistol, his eyes cold, calculating, tracking the muzzle flashes reflecting off the mirrored walls.
Across the room, Julian was using Elena as a human shield, dragging her backward toward the emergency exit while she kicked and clawed at him in hysterical fury.
“Julian, let me go!” she sobbed. “You lied to me! Let me go!”
“Shut up!” Julian snarled, his face twisted in manic terror. He pulled a compact revolver from his waistband, pressing the barrel directly against Elena’s temple. “They want the bonds! If you don't keep quiet, I’ll drop you right here!”
The masked gunmen weren't shooting at the guests; their fire was concentrated on Julian’s escape route, pinning him against the service elevators. Moretti’s crew had come to collect the twelve million, and they didn't care if Chicago’s elite died in the crossfire.
“Rachel,” Ethan said, leaning close to my ear amidst the deafening roar of gunfire. “Listen to me very carefully.”
“Ethan, please! He’s going to kill her!”
“Look at Marco by the side pillar,” Ethan commanded, pointing to his chief security man who was crouching twenty yards away, a heavy firearm drawn. “On my signal, Marco is going to create an acoustic flash in the center aisle. When that happens, you run low to that kitchen door. Marco will take you straight to the armored transport outside.”
“What about you?” I cried, grabbing the lapels of his tuxedo, terrified not just for Elena, but horrifyingly, desperately terrified for him. “You’re outnumbered!”
Ethan offered me a ghost of a smile—dark, reckless, breathtakingly confident. “This is my city, Rachel. They brought six men to an eight-man slaughter.”
Ethan didn't wait for my response. He rose smoothly from behind the table, firing two precise shots that took down the lead Moretti gunman instantly. Marco hurled a flash grenade into the center aisle.
BOOM!
A blinding white light and an ear-splitting bang concussed the ballroom. The gunmen flinched, temporarily blinded and disoriented.
“Run!” Ethan yelled.
May you like
I didn't run for the kitchen.
Maternal fury, sisterly desperation, and pure adrenaline completely overrode my survival instincts. As Julian stumbled backward, disoriented by the blast, I charged across the broken glass in my four-inch heels, kicked them off mid-stride, and slammed my entire body weight into Julian’s side.
