Page 107 of Single Mom's Daddies
Nikolai and I split directions—he goes upstairs, I dive left into the corridor leading toward the conservatory.
The air is full of smoke now. Burnt wood, gunpowder, ozone. My lungs burn. My arm throbs. The blood loss isn’t bad enough to slow me down yet, so I grit my teeth and keep going. I pass the east stairwell. One of our guards is crouched behind the stone railing, firing down into the lower hall where someone’s taken up behind the piano.
Bullets rip into the side of the banister, wood splintering. I duck beside him, get a look—two intruders, both wearing tactical gear, one with a short-barreled shotgun.
I motion to the guard. He nods. We rise together.
Two shots—his and mine. One man drops. The other tries to run. I catch him mid-turn with a round to the spine.
The guard exhales shakily. “How many left?”
“Too many.”
The radio crackles at my side. Nikolai reports, “They’re regrouping in the rear courtyard. Looks like ten, maybe more.”
“Hold them off,” I respond. “We need to keep them away from the panic room.”
“Already on it.”
Another crash behind me—then yelling. I swing back toward the central gallery, gun raised. The fight isn’t over. It’s just hitting the second wave.
The gunfire in the central gallery is louder now—closer, sharper. Too close to the main stairwell. Too close to the panic room.
I move fast, rounding the corner with my Glock raised and heart pounding. The smell of burning wood and acrid sweat fills the air—someone lit something on fire near the back of the house, or maybe it’s just the sharp sting of gun oil and smoke bleeding through the walls. The house moans under the pressure, like it knows we’re at war again.
Three men.
That’s how many I count moving through the long glass corridor off the gallery. They’re fast, but they don’t move like we do. No precision. No discipline. Just speed and noise.
But sometimes that’s enough.
I let the first one get close—close enough to see the hate in his eyes, the stupid, blind belief that they’re going to win. I drop him with a clean shot to the chest.
The other two duck for cover. One dives behind the marble sculpture at the end of the hall, the other flattens against the window. I roll to cover behind a column and peek around just as the one by the glass raises his rifle.
I shoot through the panel before he does. The bullet punches through tempered glass and into his shoulder, and he howls, weapon falling with a loudclatter. He bolts, bleeding, disappearing down the back hall.
The last one makes a run for it down the corridor. I follow. Footsteps slap hard against tile. I catch him by the coat just before he reaches the corner and slam his head into a marble column.
He goes down. Brains are supposed to be on the inside, so he’s never getting up again.
Another hallway cleared. But the gunfire hasn’t stopped.
From somewhere deeper in the house—maybe the west drawing room—I hear Nik shouting. A crashing sound follows, like a table being flipped, then two more rapid shots.
My comm crackles. Victor shouts, “Two down. Ruger’s secured. Moving back to you.”
“Copy,” I respond. “West wing still active. I’m heading there now.”
A voice from behind me makes me spin—weapon still raised. It’s Ruger. Limping. Bleeding at the temple. Victor at his side, gun up, jaw clenched.
“I’m not a fucking child!” Ruger barks. “You can’t lock me up! I can help!”
“You’re alive,” I snap. “That’s what matters.”
He looks like he wants to argue, wants to spit something about jurisdiction or protocol or due process, but he sees my face—sees the blood on my sleeve, the way I’m still gripping the gun like it’s part of my body—and thinks better of it.
Victor pulls him toward the reinforced library. “Stay down. Stayquiet.” They vanish again behind the thick doors.
