Chapter 5 - Fire and Frost
The smell of ozone and melting snow drifted up from the conservatory floor as the thermal charge began to hiss, spitting white-hot sparks against the brass handle of the french doors.
"Three seconds," Roman muttered beside me, his body dropping into a low, tactical crouch. The years away from the front lines of the Calder syndicate hadn't dulled his instincts; his hands were rock-steady as he drew a compact Beretta from his inner coat pocket. "When that door blows, I take the left, you take the right."
"I don't need you to cover my flank, Roman," I whispered back, my eyes locked on the glowing red light below. "Just make sure you don't shoot the ferns."
Before he could reply, the charge detonated with a muffled thump. The brass handle blew inward, scattering hot metal shards across the stone tiles as the heavy doors buckled open, letting a furious blast of freezing lake air rush into the warm manor.
Two masked figures poured through the breach, their weapons raised, scanning the shadows for targets.
They were expecting a terrified young woman and an old caretaker. They weren't expecting a coordinated crossfire.
"Now!" I yelled.
My first shot shattered the overhead halogen spotlight, plunging the conservatory into a chaotic dance of swirling snow and deep shadows. The first intruder spun around, blindly firing a burst into the empty air as Roman’s Beretta barked twice in rapid succession, catching the man squarely in the tactical vest and sending him crashing backward onto a display of imported orchids.
The second intruder pivoted toward the stairs, his weapon tracking upward, straight toward where Roman and I stood behind the iron balustrade.
I didn't hesitate. I stepped out from the pillar, leveled my SIG Sauer, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil kicked back against my wrist, familiar and sharp. The bullet struck the intruder’s weapon, tearing the submachine gun right out of his hands with a metallic shriek.
Before he could recover, Caleb appeared from the cross-hallway behind him, swinging the heavy wooden stock of an old hunting rifle in a wide arc that caught the man across the temple. He folded instantly, hitting the stone floor like a sack of grain.
Silence rushed back into the manor, heavier and deeper than before, broken only by the whistling wind outside and the heavy, ragged breathing of the men on the floor.
Roman lowered his weapon slowly, turning his head to look at me in the dim light. His eyes were wide, burning with an intense, unreadable mixture of shock, awe, and a terrifying depth of possession.
"Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"When you leave a woman alone in a freezing manor on the edge of Lake Erie for three years," I said, lowering my pistol and letting the slide lock back on an empty chamber, "she learns that the only person she can rely on is herself."
"Clara," Roman started, taking a step toward me, his hand reaching out as if he wanted to touch my face to make sure I wasn't a hallucination.
"Don't," I stepped back, my voice cutting him off like a razor. "The third man is still out there. And unless your father taught you how to secure a perimeter, we have a bigger problem."
Martha’s voice crackled over the intercom speakers set into the wainscoting. "Bosses—plural. We got movement on the main gate. A heavy snowcat just bulldozed through the outer security barrier. And I’m reading an encrypted satellite transmission coming from the vehicle."
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Roman’s expression instantly turned to stone. The familiar, untouchable syndicate boss was back, his eyes narrowing into cold, calculating slits.
"Vance," Roman said, his jaw tight. "He didn't send an extraction team. He came to collect in person."
