Chapter 4
The red emergency lights turned the grand staircase into a corridor of blood.
Down in the lower halls, the gunfire was rhythmic, sharp, and disciplined.
Adrian’s private security was among the most well-compensated and lethal paramilitary units in the private sector.
They did not panic; they methodically funneled the intruders into pre-designed kill zones across the marble corridors.
Adrian guided Emily up the wide steps, keeping his body positioned between her and the lower landing.
Every instinct honed over fifteen years in the criminal underworld told him that this attack was too reckless to be Julian’s primary move.
Julian Vance was an arrogant snake, but he was never an idiot.
Throwing twenty mercenaries against the Cross fortress wasn't an assault designed to capture Genevieve Vance.
It was an assault designed to flush her out.
“Where did you hide it, Emily?” Adrian asked, his voice steady even as an explosion rattled the downstairs windows.
Emily had to skip steps to keep up with his long, urgent strides.
“The library,” she breathed, clutching her blanket around her chest.
“Third floor.”
Adrian frowned slightly.
“The library has three thousand antique books and forty historical artifacts.”
“Where did you put a digital drive?”
“Behind the portrait of your grandfather,” she admitted.
Adrian nearly stopped on the landing.
The portrait of Arthur Cross, the founding patriarch of the shipping syndicate, hung over the marble fireplace in the center of the room.
It was an eight-foot-tall oil painting that hadn't been moved from the wall since Adrian was nine years old.
“How did you even reach the back of that frame?” Adrian asked, genuinely amazed.
“I used the mahogany rolling ladder on Tuesday mornings,” she said, her voice strained.
“You were always at the dock union meetings in Newark between nine and eleven.”
“I had twenty minutes to unscrew the mounting bracket and slide the titanium drive into the hollow cavity of the frame.”
Adrian shook his head as they reached the heavy oak double doors of the private library.
“I pay my security consultants three million dollars a year to scan every package that enters this gate,” he muttered.
“And my housekeeper walks a weapon of mass financial destruction straight into my private study.”
He pushed the library doors open and motioned her inside.
The library was quiet, insulated from the violent sounds of the lower floors by six-inch-thick stone walls.
Outside the massive arched windows, lightning flashed across the Hudson Valley, illuminating rows of towering bookshelves.
Adrian didn't turn on any lamps.
He moved through the gloom with absolute familiarity, guiding Emily directly to the grand stone hearth.
The stern, painted eyes of Arthur Cross stared down at them through the crimson emergency glow.
“Get the ladder,” Adrian ordered quietly.
Emily hurried to the brass track along the east wall, sliding the heavy rolling ladder across the floorboards.
Her bare feet made almost no sound on the Persian rug.
As she stepped onto the bottom rung, Adrian stepped up behind her, placing a steadying hand on her waist.
His touch was warm, sending a strange, unexpected shiver through her spine that had nothing to do with terror.
She climbed three rungs, her hands reaching toward the ornate gilded frame of the massive portrait.
Her fingertips slipped behind the heavy canvas, searching the dust-covered groove where the wood met the brick chimney.
Her fingers caught on something cold, metallic, and smooth.
“I have it,” she whispered.
Just as her hand pulled the rectangular titanium casing free, the heavy glass of the library’s ceiling skylight shattered violently.
Rain, wind, and jagged shards of glass rained down onto the Persian rug.
Two heavily armed figures in matte-black tactical gear descended through the roof on rappelling ropes.
Before their boots even touched the floor, Adrian had shoved Emily off the ladder and down behind the mahogany desk.
“Stay down!” he roared.
Adrian didn't dive for cover.
He raised his weapon with terrifying speed and fired three shots into the chest of the first operative.
The man’s body jerked mid-air, the heavy rounds punching through his body armor, and he crashed limply into a bookshelf, bringing hundreds of leather-bound volumes down on top of him.
The second operative swung hard, dropping his rope and landing on the floor with a submachine gun raised.
Adrian threw himself sideways over a low leather sofa just as a spray of automatic fire tore through the cushions.
Feathers and shredded fabric exploded into the air like a snowstorm.
Emily pressed herself flat against the floor behind the desk, her heart pounding so hard she felt it in her throat.
She clutched the titanium drive tightly against her breastbone, its sharp edges digging painfully into her flesh.
She could hear the heavy boots of the gunman advancing toward the sofa where Adrian had dropped.
“Adrian!” she screamed, unable to stop herself.
The distraction lasted half a second, but for Adrian Cross, half a second was an eternity.
Adrian rolled out from beneath the shattered end table, swept the operative's legs out from under him with a brutal kick, and lunged.
The two men hit the hardwood floor with a bone-jarring crash.
The submachine gun skittered across the rug, disappearing beneath a chair.
The operative pulled a combat knife from his chest rig, slashing wildly toward Adrian’s throat.
Adrian caught the man’s wrist with his left hand, the blade stopping two inches from his jugular.
With his right hand, Adrian slammed a series of vicious, close-quarters hammer blows into the operative’s jaw and temple.
The man’s head snapped back against the floorboards.
Adrian twisted the operative's wrist violently until a sharp pop echoed through the room.
The knife dropped from limp fingers.
Adrian snatched the blade before it hit the floor and drove it clean through the operative’s throat into the floorboards below.
The man choked once, spasmed, and went entirely still.
The room returned to relative silence, broken only by the whistling wind and rain pouring through the shattered skylight.
Adrian rose slowly, his breathing ragged, his dark shirt splattered with dark crimson.
He stood over the dead man for three seconds, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with an ancient, primal fury.
Then he turned his head toward the desk.
“Emily.”
She peered out from behind the heavy wood, her face soaked in tears, her body shaking uncontrollably.
When she saw the blood on his hands and shirt, a tiny gasp escaped her lips.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice cracking into pieces.
Adrian wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing rain and sweat.
“None of this is mine,” he said coldly.
He walked over to the desk, extended a hand, and pulled her gently to her feet.
She stumbled against him, her knees refusing to support her weight any longer.
Adrian didn't let her fall.
He wrapped his strong arms around her, pulling her small, trembling body flush against his chest.
Emily buried her face in his neck, inhaling the sharp scents of rain, gunpowder, and cedarwood that defined him.
For the first time in ten terrifying years of running, hiding, and waiting to die, she felt something she hadn't felt since her father’s boat was whole.
She felt completely, undeniably safe.
Adrian held her there under the ruined skylight, oblivious to the freezing rain soaking through their clothes.
His hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her damp brown hair.
“You’re safe,” he whispered against her ear, the words carrying a vow he had never made to any living soul.
“No one touches you while I breathe.”
The library doors burst open.
Nathan stood in the doorway, his rifle lowered, his eyes scanning the two dead mercenaries on the floor.
“Conservatory is clear, boss,” Nathan said, his voice taut.
“We took one alive, like you asked.”
Adrian didn't release his hold on Emily, but his eyes lifted to meet his security chief’s.
“Where is he?” Adrian asked, his voice returning to that icy, terrifying calm.
May you like
“In the cellar,” Nathan answered.
“He’s ready to talk.”
