Chapter 8: The Hostages
The security pavilion was a small, standalone concrete structure situated fifty yards from the main gates. Inside, it smelled of stale coffee, ozone, and sheer terror.
Rachel Bennett sat curled on the linoleum floor in the corner of the room, her arms wrapped tightly around her four-year-old daughter. Emma had stopped crying, but she was trembling so hard her teeth were chattering.
Standing by the door was a heavy-set security guard named Vance. He was pacing nervously, a tactical shotgun slung across his chest. When the power to the estate suddenly died, plunging the monitors on the desk into blackness, Vance swore loudly and flicked on a heavy Maglite flashlight.
The beam of light swept across the room, illuminating Rachel’s terrified face.
"Please," Rachel begged, her voice barely a whisper. "Just let us go. We won't say anything. I swear to God."
"Shut up," Vance growled, pulling a two-way radio from his belt. He pressed the transmit button. "Marcus, talk to me. The power just went down hard. Generators aren't kicking in. Did you cut it?"
Static hissed through the radio, followed by Marcus’s breathless voice. "Negative. Westwood hit the main breaker. He’s out of the house. He’s moving in the dark."
"What do you want me to do with the maid and the kid?"
There was a heavy pause on the radio. Rachel squeezed her eyes shut, pulling Emma’s head against her chest to muffle her ears.
"The Petrovs don't leave witnesses, Vance," Marcus’s voice crackled coldly over the speaker. "Eliminate the loose ends. Then lock down the front gate and come help us hunt him down."
Vance swallowed hard. He was a mercenary, paid to look the other way while drugs and money moved through the ports, but killing a four-year-old girl was a line he had never crossed.
"Marcus, she’s a kid," Vance muttered into the radio.
"Do it, or you're next," the radio barked back.
Vance sighed heavily. He clipped the radio back to his belt and racked the slide of the shotgun. The mechanical clack-clack sound echoed like a death knell in the small room. He pointed the beam of the flashlight at Rachel.
"I'm sorry, lady. It’s nothing personal," Vance said, raising the barrel.
Rachel screamed, throwing her body entirely over her daughter to shield her.
Suddenly, the reinforced glass of the pavilion window shattered inward in an explosion of rain, wind, and flying glass.
Vance spun around, swinging the flashlight and the shotgun toward the window.
Before he could pull the trigger, a heavy metal fire extinguisher—hurled through the broken window from the outside—slammed directly into his chest. The impact knocked the wind out of him, sending him stumbling backward.
A shadow leaped through the shattered window with terrifying speed.
Adrian didn't give the guard a second to recover. He closed the distance in two strides, grabbing the barrel of the shotgun and shoving it forcefully toward the ceiling just as Vance pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The buckshot blew a massive hole through the acoustic ceiling tiles, raining fiberglass and plaster down on them.
Adrian twisted the hot barrel of the shotgun violently, forcing Vance to release his grip with a cry of pain. Adrian tossed the weapon aside, stepped inside Vance’s guard, and drove his elbow brutally into the man’s jaw.
Vance’s head snapped back with a sickening crunch. He collapsed to the linoleum floor, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
The pavilion went dead silent, save for the howling wind whipping through the broken window.
Adrian stood over the guard, chest heaving, his wet clothes clinging to his body. He was bleeding from several small cuts, but his eyes were clear and focused. He picked up the dropped flashlight and turned it away from Rachel so the beam wouldn't blind her.
"Rachel," Adrian said softly, his voice a stark contrast to the violence he had just unleashed. "Are you hurt?"
Rachel slowly looked up, her eyes wide with shock. She shook her head numbly. "No. No, we're okay."
Emma peeked out from beneath her mother’s arms. She saw Adrian standing there, covered in rain and blood, and instead of screaming, she held out her stuffed rabbit toward him.
"You stopped the bad man," Emma whispered.
Adrian felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest—a crushing reminder of the family he and Claire had been trying to start before she was murdered. He knelt down, ignoring the pain in his bruised ribs, and gently touched the rabbit's ear.
"I did," Adrian said gently. "But we have to move now. It's not safe here."
"Where do we go?" Rachel asked, scrambling to her feet and pulling Emma up with her. "They have guns, Mr. Westwood. There are men all over the lawn."
"I have a panic room beneath the east wing. It runs on a separate, localized battery, and the door is three-inch titanium. Once you're inside, nobody is getting to you," Adrian explained, grabbing the shotgun from the floor and slinging it over his shoulder. He handed his 9mm Glock to Rachel. "Do you know how to use this?"
Rachel took the heavy pistol with trembling hands. "My husband was a cop. I know how to pull the trigger."
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"Good. Keep it off safety. If anyone but me comes through that door, you empty the magazine," Adrian instructed. "Let's go. Stay right behind me."
He led them out into the torrential storm, moving through the shadows of the manicured hedges, using the blinding rain as cover to slip past the patrols.
