Chapter 7 - THE NURSERY AMBUSH
The world seemed to stop spinning. The blood in my veins turned straight to ice.
“Leo!” I screamed, leaping from the boardroom chair, ignoring the tearing pain in my abdomen.
“Elena, wait!” Cole caught me by the arms, holding me steady before I could stumble. “The safehouse has an armored panic room! The nanny is an ex-Mossad operative I trained personally. She has Leo inside the vault. But Marcus brought heavy ordnance. We have five minutes before they burn through the hydraulic door!”
We ran through the penthouse corridors toward the private rooftop helipad. The roar of the helicopter’s twin engines was already screaming against the Manhattan skyline as our pilot throttled up. We scrambled into the cabin, and before the side door had fully clicked shut, the chopper banked sharply over Central Park, rocketing northward toward the estate in Westchester County.
Ten agonizing minutes felt like ten centuries.
I clutched my chest, praying with every breath I had left. Please, God. Take my life, take the billions, take everything—just leave my son.
“Marcus doesn’t want to kill the baby,” Cole said grimly as he loaded a customized tactical shotgun with breaching rounds. “He knows Brandon and Arthur are ruined. Leo is his only leverage. If he has your child, he can extort hundreds of millions and demand immunity to escape the country.”
“He won't lay a single finger on my boy,” I whispered, my voice shaking with a feral, terrifying rage that surprised even myself.
“Elena, you stay in the aircraft when we land,” Cole ordered, his eyes locking onto mine with fierce protectiveness. “Marcus is an elite operator. He has no moral code left.”
“He has my son!” I yelled back, tears blazing in my eyes. “I am not staying in any seat while my child is in danger!”
The helicopter swept over the pine-surrounded estate in Westchester. Smoke was pouring from the ground floor of the colonial mansion. Two of Cole’s outer guards lay motionless on the manicured lawn, wounded by flash-bang grenades.
The helicopter touched down on the front lawn before the skids were even level. Cole leapt out into the smoke, his shotgun raised.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed a nine-millimeter Glock from the helicopter’s emergency locker, racked the slide just as Cole had shown me during our brief tactical briefing on the jet, and sprinted through the smoke-choked front entrance.
Inside, the grand foyer was wrecked. Bullet holes peppered the antique wallpaper, and glass from the chandelier was scattered across the oriental rugs.
A high-pitched scream came from the upper gallery.
Gretchen.
I bounded up the curved marble staircase, my heart hammering like a war drum.
At the end of the hall, outside the master nursery, the steel-reinforced door of the panic room had been partially melted by a thermite torch. Standing in the doorway, holding a smoking torch and an Uzi, was Gretchen. Her designer dress was torn, her blonde hair wild with hysterical madness.
Behind her, inside the nursery, Marcus Vance was wrestling with the nanny on the floor. In the corner of the room, resting inside an armored crib, was Leo, screaming at the top of his lungs.
“Marcus, hurry!” Gretchen shrieked, looking down the hall. “The helicopter landed!”
Then she saw me.
Her eyes widened in unhinged hatred. “You! You won’t die! Why won’t you just stay dead?!”
Gretchen raised her weapon straight at my chest.
I didn't flinch. I didn't beg.
I raised my pistol with both hands, aimed dead center, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The shot caught Gretchen directly in the right shoulder. The impact threw her against the doorframe, her Uzi clattering harmlessly to the floor. She shrieked, clutching her bleeding shoulder, collapsing onto the carpet.
I rushed forward, kicking the fallen weapon down the stairs, and burst into the nursery.
Inside, Marcus had just incapacitated the nanny with a blunt strike. He spun around, pulling a combat knife, his scarred face twisted into an ugly, feral grin.
“The little heiress learned to shoot,” Marcus mocked, taking a menacing step toward me, using the crib as a partial shield. “Drop the gun, Elena, or I’ll cut the kid’s throat before you can clear the holster.”
My hands began to shake. The gun was heavy, and Marcus was too close to Leo. If I missed, my bullet could hit the crib.
“Put the knife down, Marcus,” a cold, lethal voice commanded from the doorway.
Cole stood there. His shotgun was lowered, but his eyes were pure death.
Marcus sneered, turning slightly toward his brother. “Ah, the loyal dog returns. Are you going to shoot your own flesh and blood, Cole? For an outsider’s bastard?”
“You stopped being my brother the day you murdered her father,” Cole said softly.
With blinding speed, Marcus kicked the heavy oak changing table straight at Cole, lunging forward with the knife aimed at his throat.
Cole sidestepped the table with inhuman reflexes, caught Marcus’s stabbing wrist in a crushing grip, and drove his knee directly into Marcus’s ribs. A loud crack echoed in the nursery. Marcus roared in pain, spinning and slashing backward, slicing a deep gash across Cole’s cheek.
The two brothers collided like freight trains, smashing against the bookshelf, crashing through a glass coffee table in a flurry of brutal, bone-crunching strikes. Marcus fought like a rabid animal, biting, gouging, reaching for his fallen knife. But Cole was fueled by years of pent-up rage and the sacred duty to protect the woman he loved.
Cole trapped Marcus in a devastating Kimura arm-lock, twisting his brother’s shoulder until the joint popped with a sickening sound. Marcus shrieked in agony, dropping the knife.
Cole didn't stop. He dragged Marcus to his feet, slammed him into the wall, and drove a thunderous right cross into his jaw.
Marcus went limp, collapsing unconscious onto the shattered glass.
Cole stood over him, panting heavily, blood dripping from the cut on his cheek. He took two deep breaths, then kicked the combat knife across the room.
I didn't care about the bodies on the floor. I sprinted past them, throwing myself toward the crib.
“Leo!” I cried, scooping my screaming baby into my arms.
I pressed him against my chest, covering his tiny head with frantic, desperate kisses. He was warm, he was whole, he was safe. His cries slowly quieted into soft hiccups as he felt my heartbeat.
“He’s okay,” I wept, falling to my knees on the nursery carpet, rocking him gently. “He’s okay. He’s alive.”
Cole walked over, breathing hard, his knuckles split and bleeding. He slowly knelt beside me. He looked down at Leo, then reached out with a trembling, bloody thumb to gently stroke my son’s soft cheek.
“I promised you,” Cole said, his voice raw with emotion. “No one touches him.”
I looked up at him, my eyes swimming with tears. Without thinking, I reached out and touched his wounded cheek, my fingers brushing away the blood.
“Thank you, Cole,” I whispered.
He looked into my eyes, his breath hitching, his rugged guard completely falling away. In that quiet, blood-soaked nursery, surrounded by the ruins of the ambush, the bond between us transcended duty. It was unbreakable.
Down below, the distant sirens of the State Police and the FBI wailed across the valley.
May you like
Gretchen was sobbing in the hallway, clutching her shattered shoulder, while Marcus lay unconscious in chains.
The nightmare of Montana was finally over. But the true battle for our future was about to begin.
