Chapter 3 - The Shadow Protocol
The snap of the industrial cord sounded like a pistol shot in the small stone room.
Before the two hired mercenaries could draw their weapons, Silas threw his body weight forward, driving the heavy iron chair directly into the nearest guard’s knees. The man collapsed with a loud crack, his firearm clattering across the slick floor.
Mara didn't hesitate. She swung the heavy iron skillet she had kept hidden behind her apron, striking the second guard squarely across the temple. The man staggered backward, dazed, spilling blood onto the concrete before crashing into a stack of vintage wine crates.
Graham panicked. He dropped the tablet and reached into his coat pocket for a small snub-nosed revolver.
Silas, his right hand now free, lunged from the chair, grabbing Graham by the throat and slamming the silver-haired lawyer against the cold stone wall. The revolver clattered to the floor, rolling to Mara’s feet.
"Thirty years, Graham," Silas breathed, his hand tightening around Voss’s neck until the lawyer’s face turned purple. "I gave you a home, a career, a fortune. And you sold me out for an offshore holding company."
"Silas... wait..." Graham choked out, his hands clawing helplessly at Silas’s iron grip. "It wasn't... just me... the Syndicate... they made a deal..."
"I know who you worked with," Silas growled.
He didn't snap the man's neck. Instead, Silas drove a heavy fist into Graham’s stomach, dropping the traitorous attorney to his knees, gasping for air.
Silas turned quickly to Mara. Blood was pouring from the graze on his shoulder, staining his white shirt completely red, but his stance was unwavering. He looked down at the gun at Mara’s feet, then up at her face.
"You hit a trained mercenary with a frying pan," Silas said, a ghost of a grin touching his bloodied lips.
"It was heavy," Mara said simply, picking up the revolver with a steady hand and handing it to him handle-first. "We need to get Poppy. She’s locked in the linen press."
Silas took the weapon, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency. "Your daughter saved my life, Mara. That broken toy of hers cut through the primary tension line of the binding."
"She thinks you're an uncle who needs help," Mara said quietly. "Don't let her see you like this."
Silas looked down at his blood-soaked shirt, then at the unconscious bodies of the two guards on the floor. "We have four minutes before the remaining men upstairs realize the cellar is lost. Is the west service stairs clear?"
"No," Mara said. "I saw two armed men standing by the main kitchen entrance. Graham brought at least six men total."
Silas's eyes turned dark and focused. "Then we don't go up. We go deeper."
He walked over to the far wall of the cellar, pushing aside a massive oak wine barrel that looked like it had been built into the foundation a century ago. Behind it lay a heavy steel door with a mechanical keypad—the entry to the mansion’s primary panic vault and private communications hub.
May you like
Silas punched in an eight-digit sequence. The heavy door clicked open with a deep pneumatic hiss.
"Get Poppy," Silas ordered Mara, handing her a keycard from Graham’s unconscious body. "Use the linen press service hatch behind the laundry room. Bring her down here in two minutes. I’m bringing down the entire Chicago network on Graham's buyers."
