Chapter 17 - The Face of the Dead
The muzzle flash lit the cavernous living room like a lightning strike.
Daniel fired. The heavy buckshot slammed the lead operative backward through the shattered balcony frame, sending him screaming into the jagged abyss below. The remaining two mercenaries immediately opened fire with suppressed submachine guns, chewing through the designer furniture, tearing the walls to ribboned pulp.
Daniel rolled behind the solid quartz kitchen island, glass raining down on his back. He fired again blindly over the counter, hearing a grunt of pain as the second man collapsed, clutching a shattered femur.
The third operative lunged forward, tackling Daniel to the hardwood floor. The shotgun flew from Daniel’s hands.
A combat blade flashed in the dim ambient light, descending toward Daniel’s throat. Daniel caught the man’s wrist with both hands, muscles screaming under the strain. The blade hovered an inch above his jugular. With a desperate heave, Daniel drove his knee upward into the man’s groin, then slammed his skull into the operative’s nose with a sickening crunch. The man reeled, and Daniel seized the fallen combat knife, driving it upward beneath the operative’s tactical vest.
The man went limp. Daniel shoved the heavy body aside, gasping for air, his linen shirt soaked in foreign blood.
Suddenly, slow, rhythmic clapping echoed from the entryway.
Daniel spun around, gripping the bloody knife, his chest heaving like a wounded beast.
Standing in the foyer, illuminated by a flash of lightning through the skylight, was the silver-haired man from the video. He wore a tailored cashmere overcoat that remained bone-dry despite the torrential rain outside. Behind him stood Vanessa, her face twisted in a feral, victorious grin, holding an assault rifle aimed squarely at Daniel’s chest.
The older man lowered his umbrella and stepped forward. He looked like an older, sharper, colder reflection of Daniel himself.
"You fight with more grit than your father ever had, Daniel," the man remarked smoothly, his voice carrying the calm authority of an emperor. "I suppose that’s the common blood Eleanor always despised."
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"Julian," Daniel spat, blood dripping from his knuckles.
"In the flesh, little brother," Julian replied, tilting his head with amusement. "Or rather, the brother Eleanor kept locked away in European boarding schools while you inherited the crown jewel of the Ashford name. But empires, Daniel, always return to their rightful master."
