Chapter 9 - BLOOD ON THE RIVER
Gunfire shattered the quiet of the penthouse suite.
Claire grabbed Owen by the scruff of his collar and dived behind the reinforced mahogany desk just as a spray of high-caliber rounds shredded the floor-to-ceiling windows into a cascade of glittering glass. Owen didn't scream; he curled into a tight ball, his hands over his ears, his training keeping him dead silent.
Claire unholstered the customized Glock from beneath her blazer, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. "Owen, crawl to the private elevator. Do not look back."
Before she could return fire, the heavy oak double doors of the elevator exploded inward, and a figure rushed into the room like an avenging demon.
It was Graham.
He wasn't wearing a tailored suit anymore. He was in black tactical gear, his face bruised and streaked with soot, wielding a semi-automatic shotgun with lethal precision. He fired two deafening rounds point-blank into the first attacker, dropping him instantly, then swung the barrel toward the second shooter, pinning him against the wall before disarming him with a brutal, sickening snap of the wrist.
More boots echoed down the marble corridor.
"Claire! Move!" Graham roared, his voice hoarse from smoke. He stepped over the bodies, his eyes locking onto Claire and Owen. He had a bullet graze across his left shoulder, blood soaking through his dark combat vest, but he stood between the doorway and her desk like an iron wall.
"How did you get up here?" Claire demanded, keeping her weapon trained on the hallway.
"I tracked Moretti’s radio frequencies," Graham gasped, reloading the shotgun with mechanical speed. "They have forty men in the building. They cut the power to the stairwells. Marcus is fighting his way up from the lobby, but we have about ninety seconds before they breach the terrace."
Owen peered out from behind the desk, staring at the blood dripping from Graham’s arm. "You're hurt."
Graham looked down at his son, his expression softening with a tenderness that completely fractured his hardened exterior. "I'm fine, kiddo. Just a scratch. I told you I'd hold the line."
The glass on the terrace shattered as grappling hooks bit into the stone balustrade. Three more men in black tactical gear swung through the opening, weapons firing on full auto.
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Graham didn't hesitate. He lunged across the open space, throwing his entire body over Claire and Owen as concrete and plaster rained down around them. Claire felt the heavy, suffocating weight of him, felt the violent shudder that tore through his back as two rounds found their mark against his armor—and one slipped through the unprotected flesh beneath his shoulder blade.
Graham let out a muffled groan, but he didn't move an inch. He kept his arms locked around them, taking every fragment, every shockwave, shielding them with his own flesh and blood until the deafening roar of Marcus Vance’s heavy security team filled the room, clearing the terrace with a coordinated hail of defensive fire.
