Chapter 9 - THE GLASS BALCONY BREACH
The explosion of the reinforced glass sounded like a cannon firing inside a small room.
Even with ballistic laminates designed to resist blunt force, the high-temperature chemical torch had weakened the structural seams of the frame, allowing the intruder to blow the heavy French doors inward with a shaped pneumatic charge.
Shockwaves ripped through the master suite, sending crystal fragments raining down like razor blades across the hardwood floor.
Emily was thrown off her feet by the blast, her shoulder slamming hard into the corner of the heavy drafting table.
Pain exploded across her back, but her instinct was instantaneous and absolute: she rolled onto her side, tucking her knees to her chest, curling her body into a defensive shell over her stomach.
"LOGAN!" she screamed again, her voice tearing against the smoke filling the room.
Through the smoking ruin of the shattered balcony doors, a figure in black tactical gear stepped into the bedroom.
He moved with chilling, military precision, wearing a Kevlar vest, night-vision goggles pushed up on his helmet, and a suppressed Glock 19 raised in both hands.
He didn't speak.
He didn't look for jewelry or cash.
His weapon swept the room until the laser sight painted a bright red dot directly on Emily’s chest.
Emily stared into the black opening of the suppressor, her breath completely frozen in her throat.
This was it.
They were going to execute her and Daniel's baby right on the floorboards where Daniel had hidden his secrets.
The bedroom door burst inward with a deafening crash that ripped the steel hinges straight out of the oak frame.
Logan Russo entered like a battering ram.
He wasn't wearing a vest.
He wasn't wearing shoes.
He held a heavy, black Sig Sauer P226 in his right hand, his eyes blazing with a feral, terrifying madness.
Pfft-pfft!
Two suppressed rounds tore through the drywall inches from Logan’s head, plaster raining down into his black hair.
Logan didn't take cover.
He charged forward with terrifying speed, firing three deafening shots that echoed like thunderclaps inside the enclosed room.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The muzzle flash lit up the suite in violent strobes of orange and white.
Two hollow-point rounds struck the intruder squarely in the center of his Kevlar chest plate, driving the man backward against the splintered frame of the balcony door.
The third round clipped the assassin’s right shoulder, spinning him halfway around and sending his suppressed Glock skittering across the bloody marble floorboards.
The intruder let out a choked grunt of pain, his back hitting the stone balustrade outside.
Logan closed the distance in two predatory strides, dropping his empty weapon and driving his right boot into the man’s wounded shoulder with sickening force.
The assassin screamed beneath his tactical balaclava.
Logan dropped his knee onto the man’s throat, pinning him to the rain-slicked stones of the balcony, water instantly soaking through Logan’s white dress shirt.
"Who sent you?" Logan snarled, his voice stripped of all humanity, a guttural roar that rose above the crashing thunder.
He drew a heavy combat knife from a sheath concealed at the small of his back, pressing the serrated edge against the soft tissue beneath the assassin’s jaw.
"Give me a name, or I will push you over this railing headfirst."
The assassin choked, blood bubbling through the black fabric of his mask.
"You're... too late, Russo," the man gasped in a thick Eastern European accent.
"The contract... was paid... in full."
Before Logan could drive the blade home, the sound of heavy boots thudded through the ruined bedroom.
Marcus, Logan’s chief of security, burst onto the balcony, followed by two armed guards with assault rifles raised.
"Sir! Step back! We have perimeter breaches at the north gate!" Marcus shouted, rain plastering his hair to his forehead.
"Two diversionary fires were set at the stables! The local fire department has already been dispatched by an anonymous call!"
Logan stared down at the bleeding assassin for one cold, merciless second.
He grabbed the man by the collar of his Kevlar vest, hoisted him up, and threw him violently back into the bedroom, where he landed with a heavy groan at Marcus’s feet.
"Zip-tie him," Logan ordered, wiping rainwater and a smear of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.
"Take him to the basement storage beneath the carriage house. If he dies before Dr. Sterling gets here, I will hold you personally responsible, Marcus."
"Understood, sir," Marcus barked, dragging the groaning hitman out of the room.
Logan turned back toward the interior of the bedroom, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.
Emily was still curled on the floor near the drafting table, trembling violently, her face deathly pale in the flickering fireplace light.
Logan crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside her.
His massive, scarred hands hovered over her body, hesitant to touch her, terrified he might hurt her further.
"Emily," Logan whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate fear she had never heard in him before.
"Look at me. Emily, look at me."
Emily slowly opened her eyes.
She looked into his amber gaze, seeing the wild terror in his eyes—not for himself, but for her.
"The baby..." Emily choked out, her voice barely a whisper.
"Did they hit you? Did you get shot?" Logan asked frantically, his hands gently feeling along her shoulders, her ribs, her waist, checking for blood.
"I... I fell against the table," Emily wept, tears cutting through the plaster dust on her cheeks.
"My back hurts... but I didn't get shot. I shielded my stomach. Logan, I shielded the baby."
Logan let out a long, shuddering breath that sounded like a sob caught in his throat.
Without thinking, without any of the cold, professional distance he had maintained for three days, Logan wrapped his powerful arms around her, pulling her trembling body against his wet, broad chest.
He buried his face into the curve of her neck, holding her so tightly she could feel the frantic, thunderous hammering of his heart against her cheek.
"You're safe," Logan muttered into her hair, his voice rough and broken.
"You're safe. I’ve got you. Nobody touches you in this house. Nobody."
Emily clutched the wet fabric of his shirt with both hands, letting herself collapse against him, letting his solid, lethal strength anchor her against the madness.
For three months, she had been entirely alone in the dark.
Now, inside this house of murderers and wolves, the most dangerous man in the city was holding her like she was made of spun glass.
"Logan," Emily whispered against his collarbone, her hand trembling as she pointed toward the ruined bed.
"What is it?" Logan asked, pulling back slightly to look at her face.
"Daniel," Emily said, her breath hitching.
"He left something for you. Under the floorboards."
Logan froze.
His amber eyes narrowed, flicking from her face to the loosened oak plank near the bookshelf.
"What did he leave, Emily?"
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"The truth," Emily said, looking into his eyes.
"And the name of the man who killed him."
