Chapter 5 - The BreachZ
The apartment was dead silent for half a heartbeat. In tactical combat, that fraction of a second is an eternity.
Miller's finger began to squeeze the trigger of his suppressed weapon, but I was already moving. I didn't retreat; I closed the distance. The primary rule of close-quarters engagement against a firearm is simple: control the muzzle, eliminate the leverage.
I lunged forward, pivoting hard to the outside of Miller's weapon arm. My left hand clamped down violently over the slide of his pistol, forcing it out of battery and pushing the barrel toward the ceiling. With my right hand, I drove a brutal palm strike directly under his chin, snapping his head back with a wet crunch.
The gun fired once—a muffled phut that sent a nine-millimeter round into the plaster molding above the foyer.
Chloe let out a blood-curdling scream and threw herself behind the marble island, covering her head and sobbing hysterically.
The second operative lunged forward, reaching for a collapsible baton at his hip. I didn't give him time to deploy it. Using Miller's massive bulk as a human shield, I drove my heel into the side of Miller's right knee. The joint gave way with an audible pop, and the giant collapsed with a roar of agony.
Before the second man could swing, I stripped the pistol from Miller’s failing grip, stepped past his falling body, and drove the steel slide of the weapon across the bridge of the second operative's nose.
Bone shattered. Blood sprayed across the white marble foyer. The second man staggered backward, disoriented, drops of crimson dripping down his tactical vest. I followed through with a spinning back kick to his solar plexus, sending him flying into the glass display cabinet. The reinforced shelves shattered, raining crystal and antique porcelain over his groaning form.
The third man—the one standing near the doorway—froze. He had his hand inside his jacket, but the sight of his two senior operators incapacitated in less than four seconds shattered his resolve.
I leveled the captured pistol directly between his eyes, my stance locked, breathing steady, finger resting lightly on the trigger guard.
"Take your hand out of your coat. Slowly," I commanded, my voice flat, cold, and utterly terrifying. "With two fingers. Drop the piece."
The man swallowed hard, his face pale under his cap. He slowly withdrew a compact Sig Sauer using his index finger and thumb, letting it clatter to the floor.
"Kick it toward me," I ordered.
He kicked the gun across the parquet floor. It slid smoothly to my feet.
"On your knees. Hands behind your head. Interlock your fingers."
The operative complied instantly, dropping to his knees, trembling.
From behind the island, Chloe peeked her head out, her eyes wide with unadulterated horror. She wasn't looking at the injured mercenaries on the floor; she was looking at me. For five years, she had known me as the quiet sister-in-law who poured tea, listened to Eleanor’s passive-aggressive insults, and quietly footed the bill for family vacations. She was currently looking at a professional killer whose pulse hadn't even elevated.
"What... what are you?" Chloe whimpered, her voice shaking violently. "Who are you?"
"I’m the person who paid for your college tuition, Chloe," I said without looking at her, keeping my eyes fixed on the surviving operative. "Now shut up and don't move."
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my secure phone, and speed-dialed Vance.
"Vance. Breach at the primary residence. Three hostiles down. Contractor team sent by Sterling."
"Jesus, Marissa," Vance's voice crackled through the speaker. "Are you hit?"
"Negative. Clear. I need a sanitized cleanup unit at the penthouse in ten minutes. And contact Director Hayes at the Defense Intelligence Agency. Tell him Victor Sterling just authorized an armed strike on an active national security asset on domestic soil. Tell Hayes the gloves are off."
"Understood," Vance said, his keyboard clicking furiously in the background. "Hayes is going to lose his mind. Sterling just committed treason under Title 18. We have legal authorization to raid Sterling Global’s headquarters within the hour."
"Do it," I said. "And Vance? Trace the comms on these three. Find out who gave them the override codes to my private elevator."
There was a five-second pause on the line. Then Vance sighed heavily.
"I don't need to trace it, Marissa. The concierge log shows an access authorization issued twenty minutes ago from a registered family account."
I lowered the phone slightly, turning my gaze toward Chloe, who was still trembling behind the marble counter.
"Chloe," I said softly, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly cold. "Where did you get the keycard override for my private elevator?"
Chloe’s breath hitched. Tears poured down her cheeks as she backed away until her spine hit the kitchen cabinets. "I... I didn't know! I swear to God, Marissa, I didn't know!"
"Who gave it to you?"
"Anthony!" she screamed, breaking down completely. "Anthony gave it to me! He told me to come up here and distract you! He said Victor's men just wanted to talk to you about settling the debt! He said they were just going to make you sign a non-disclosure agreement so the feds would go away!"
I stood in the center of the ruined foyer, surrounded by shattered glass, bleeding mercenaries, and the absolute, undeniable proof of my ex-husband's total moral depravity. Anthony hadn't just stood by while his mother stole from me. He had orchestrated an armed home invasion, using his own sister as bait, in a desperate attempt to save his worthless reputation.
"Get up, Chloe," I said, my voice dead.
May you like
"Please don't shoot me!" she wailed, clutching her knees.
"I’m not going to shoot you," I said coldly, tucking the captured weapon into the waistband of my trousers. "You're going to walk out of that door, you're going to get into a cab, and you're going to tell your brother that whatever mercy I had left for the Whitmore family died five minutes ago."
