Chapter 10 - The Judgment in the Grand Foyer
The silence that stretched across the grand foyer lasted barely half a heartbeat before erupting into absolute, catastrophic violence.
Marco Moretti screamed an incoherent order, diving behind the overturned mahogany dining table as his four remaining personal bodyguards swung their assault rifles upward toward the landing.
Liam Mercer fired downward before their barrels could level.
The heavy buckshot blasted through the first mercenary’s shoulder, spinning him into the shattered glass of the display cabinet.
I dropped flat against the cold marble floor of the third-floor landing, clutching the spare magazine to my chest, plaster and drywall raining down over my hair as automatic fire chewed through the balustrade three inches above my head.
The marble balusters exploded into white dust and flying gravel.
Liam took a knee, utilizing the heavy stone base of the central pillar as cover, his carbon-splinted leg locked rigidly beneath him.
He dropped the empty shotgun, pulled his heavy semi-automatic sidearm from his waist, and returned fire with terrifying, inhuman accuracy.
Three clean, rhythmic double-taps rang out through the smoky air.
Each shot found its mark with mathematical precision; the three mercenaries collapsed onto the bloodstained rug, their weapons clattering uselessly against the stone.
Down in the foyer, Marco Moretti scrambled on his knees, his expensive coat covered in soot, desperately trying to crawl toward the shattered front entrance.
Liam pushed himself up against the pillar, his face drenched in sweat, his breathing coming in ragged, agonized gasps as the physical trauma tore through his internal healing.
“Stay down, Clara,” he commanded between clenched teeth, his voice strained to the breaking point.
“Liam, your incision is bleeding through the elastic wrap!” I shouted, seeing the dark crimson stain spreading rapidly across his side.
“If you go down those stairs, you won't make it back up!”
“I don't need to make it back up,” he rasped, his eyes burning with an ancient, predatory fire that no medical advice could quench.
“This ends today.”
He gripped the brass handrail and began his descent down the grand sweeping staircase, one agonizing step at a time.
Each step sent a violent jolt through his shattered tibia, the carbon splint creaking under the strain, but he moved with the relentless, terrifying inevitability of a ghost returning from the grave.
I scrambled to my feet and followed him, refusing to let him collapse alone in the burning ruins of his ancestral home.
By the time Liam reached the fifth step from the marble floor, Marco Moretti had dragged himself to the shattered threshold of the heavy oak front doors.
Marco rolled onto his back, his face twisted in a mixture of blind panic and venomous hatred, his silver-plated pistol trembling as he raised it toward the descending figure.
“Stay back, Liam!” Marco shrieked, his voice cracking like a terrified child's.
“My father will wipe the Mercers from every port in North America!”
“You can't kill me! There is a treaty!”
Liam reached the bottom step.
He did not raise his weapon immediately.
He stood over Marco, six feet two inches of battered, bleeding, invincible fury, looking down at the man who had ordered the murder of Sofia Vane and the assassination of his own kin.
“The treaty burned two years ago on Michigan Avenue, Marco,” Liam said softly, his voice devoid of all anger, leaving only cold, eternal justice.
“You put a bomb under a car carrying an eighteen-year-old girl.”
“You called it business.”
“I call it a death warrant.”
Marco’s finger tightened frantically on the trigger of his silver pistol.
Liam didn't flinch, didn't dive, and didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward, his heavy leather boot coming down with crushing, bone-shattering force directly onto Marco Moretti’s right wrist.
The sickening crunch of splintering carpal bones echoed through the vaulted foyer.
Marco screamed, a high, agonizing wail of pure torment as the pistol flew from his shattered grip and skittered across the marble into the shadows.
Liam leveled his own black firearm directly between Marco Moretti’s eyes.
The barrel was steady, unwavering, held by a hand that had weathered poison, snipers, and the fire of an exploding past.
“Tell Sofia I kept my promise,” Liam whispered.
He pulled the trigger.
The sharp, concussive crack of the gunshot echoed once through the cavernous manor, followed by the heavy, limp thud of Marco Moretti’s body sinking into the marble floor.
The siege was over.
The silence that descended upon Mercer Manor was profound, broken only by the crackle of small fires burning in the drapery and the distant wail of sirens approaching from the county highway.
Liam Mercer stood completely motionless for five seconds, staring down at the lifeless architect of his family’s ruin.
Then, as the smoke drifted out through the shattered doorway into the cold night air, his rigid composure shattered.
His sidearm slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering against the stone.
His left knee gave way completely, and his massive frame collapsed sideways onto the bottom steps of the grand staircase.
I dropped down beside him on the blood-spattered steps, wrapping my arms around his shoulders to support his head before it struck the sharp edge of the marble.
“Liam!” I cried, my hands pressing desperately against his soaked abdominal dressing.
The elastic wrap was saturated with bright, arterial blood; his skin was ice-cold and gray, his pulse racing at an alarming, fluttering speed beneath my fingertips.
“Clara...” he whispered, his blue eyes struggling to stay open as he looked up into my face through the drifting smoke.
“The check... Tommy’s money... it’s safe.”
“Shut up about the money, Liam!” I sobbed, tears finally pouring unchecked down my soot-stained cheeks as I applied direct pressure to his hemorrhaging wound.
“Keep your eyes on me!”
“Do you hear me? Look at me!”
“You didn't survive a sniper and septic shock just to bleed out on your own damn stairs!”
A faint, beautiful, peaceful smile touched his bloody lips.
His trembling, calloused hand weakly lifted from his lap, his fingers gently brushing against my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw with breathtaking tenderness.
“The sun is coming up, Clara...” he whispered, his eyes looking past my shoulder toward the shattered front entrance where the first golden rays of dawn were cutting through the autumn mist.
“It doesn't hurt anymore.”
His hand lost its strength and slipped from my cheek, falling limp against his chest.
His eyes slowly rolled back, his head falling heavily against my shoulder as his consciousness faded into total darkness.
Outside, the roar of black SUVs tore up the gravel driveway, followed by the screeching tires of Leo’s tactical convoy arriving from the airfield.
Armed men swarmed through the shattered doorway, but their shouts and boots faded into a muffled roar behind the pounding of my own heart.
I bent over Liam Mercer’s silent, bleeding body, pressing my lips against his cold forehead, whispering the only vow that mattered into the blood and ash of the broken manor.
May you like
“You held on for me, Liam.”
“Now hold on for yourself.”
