Chapter 10 - Blood on the Parquet
The darkness inside the grand conservatory was absolute, smelling of wet earth, crushed orchids, and cold autumn rain pouring through the shattered terrace doors.
Six men dressed in black tactical fatigues moved across the flagstones in tight two-man formations.
Their assault rifles were fitted with green laser designators and suppressor tubes, cutting silent, predatory arcs through the shadows.
At the rear of the formation walked Arthur Vane, wearing an expensive camel-hair overcoat, carrying a nickel-plated revolver in his right hand.
“Find the girl first,” Arthur hissed into his throat microphone.
“Kill the maid on sight.”
“Take Garrett alive if you can; I need his retinal scan to clear the offshore transfer before dawn.”
“If he resists, blow his knees out.”
Suddenly, the entire estate shuddered.
Laura Beckett had thrown the master industrial breaker in the junction box beneath the east landing.
A split second later, the ceiling-mounted halogen emergency strobes fired with an ear-splitting electronic hum.
Blinding white pulses of high-intensity light exploded across the conservatory at thirty cycles per second.
The shooters wearing sensitive night-vision headgear screamed in agony as thousands of lumens burned into their optic nerves.
Two men ripped their goggles from their faces, stumbling blindly into the heavy marble planters.
From the mezzanine balcony thirty feet above, Laura opened fire.
Her carbine barked in controlled, three-round bursts.
She did not shoot to kill; she shot with devastating, surgical efficiency.
Rifle barrels were struck, shoulders were shattered, and weapon slings were severed by precision fire.
Two shooters collapsed onto the shattered glass, their weapons clattering away across the floor.
On the opposite flank of the balcony, Garrett Hardwick fired his heavy shotgun with thunderous, concussive authority.
The blast tore through the decorative iron balustrade, sending a shower of plaster and shrapnel raining down onto the remaining contract shooters.
“Fall back!” one of the mercenaries screamed, clutching a bleeding shoulder.
“They have crossfire from the upper tier!”
“Hold your ground, you cowards!” Arthur Vane roared, firing his nickel-plated revolver blindly toward the mezzanine.
The bullet chipped a chunk of marble two inches from Garrett’s head.
Garrett didn’t even flinch.
He vaulted over the low railing, landing on the conservatory staircase with the fluid grace of an apex predator.
He racked another shell into the chamber, walking down the steps into the blinding strobe light.
“You shouldn’t have come to my house, Arthur,” Garrett’s voice boomed over the deafening strobe pulses.
Two mercenaries tried to raise their sidearms toward Garrett’s chest.
Before they could pull their triggers, Laura dropped from the intermediate landing like a wraith.
She landed directly behind the first shooter, driving the butt of her carbine into the nerve bundle behind his knee.
The man collapsed instantly.
She pivoted on her heel, catching the second man’s outstretched wrist in an inescapable arm-bar, twisting his weapon out of his grip and driving his forehead directly into the edge of a marble pedestal.
He dropped unconscious onto the moss-covered flagstones.
Arthur Vane scrambled backward, his expensive shoes slipping on the wet glass, his face twisted in utter disbelief.
He looked around the shattered conservatory; eight of his top enforcers were lying disabled, disarmed, or unconscious on the ground.
His daughter had been neutralized.
His operational surprise was entirely dismantled.
Arthur backed toward the shattered French doors, raising his nickel-plated revolver with two trembling hands toward Laura’s chest.
“Stay back, you bitch,” Arthur panted, rain soaking his gray hair and running into his eyes.
“I built this city’s harbor with my bare hands!”
“You think you can take me down with an apron and a stolen gun?”
Laura Beckett did not raise her weapon.
She slung the carbine over her shoulder and walked steadily toward the muzzle of his gun.
Her eyes were utterly empty of fear, burning with the cold fire of righteous retribution.
“You didn't build anything, Arthur,” Laura said, her voice cutting through the drumming rain.
“You stole dock leases from widows.”
“You murdered a thirty-two-year-old girl in her bed because she was brave enough to write down your crimes.”
“And you let your daughter turn into a vicious, soulless parasite because you thought money was armor.”
Arthur’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“Die, you little—”
A shot rang out, sharp and deafening.
It was not Laura who fired, nor was it Arthur.
Garrett Hardwick had fired a precision slug through the meat of Arthur Vane’s right shoulder.
The nickel-plated revolver flew from Arthur’s shattered grip, spinning into the darkness and splashing into the goldfish pond.
Arthur collapsed against the broken limestone frame of the terrace door, howling in agony, clutching his bleeding arm.
Laura walked forward, stopping one foot from the ruined patriarch.
She leaned down, her face inches from his terrified, bloodstained eyes.
May you like
“That was for Clara,” Laura whispered.
Then, with a short, brutal chop of her open palm to the side of his neck, she silenced Arthur Vane completely, sending him into the dark sleep of the defeated.
