Chapter 8 - The Hostage in the Smoke
The west wing was a nightmare of thick, black smoke and shattered glass. The explosion had ripped the service doors right off their hinges. I moved through the smoke with my weapon raised, coughing as the acrid air burned my lungs.
"Marcus!" I roared into the darkness. "It’s over! The FBI is five minutes out! Walk away and you get to live!"
A sharp, cruel laugh echoed through the smoke.
"I'm already dead, Damon," Marcus's voice echoed, shifting around the room like a ghost. "Calder lost his mind, but I lost my freedom. I have no money. I have no passport. My face is on every federal watchlist in the country."
A shadow moved to my left. I swung the weapon around, but Marcus was too fast. He had always been an expert in close-quarters combat. He stepped out from behind the shattered kitchen island, swinging a heavy iron fireplace poker. It cracked brutally against my wrist. The gun flew from my hand, skittering across the floor into the smoke.
Marcus lunged, tackling me to the hardwood. We crashed into the broken drywall. I threw a brutal punch, catching him in the jaw, but he drove a knee into my ribs, knocking the wind completely out of me. He was wearing heavy tactical gear; I was wearing a flannel shirt.
He pulled a serrated combat knife from his belt and pressed the cold steel directly against my throat.
"I don't want to run anymore," Marcus snarled, his face covered in soot and sweat. His eyes were wide and unhinged. "I want you to feel what it's like to lose everything. Where is the little family, Damon? Where are the twins you threw away your empire for?"
"They aren't here," I choked out, blood pooling in my mouth. "They're gone."
"Liar," Marcus hissed, pressing the blade harder. "I know about the vault. I have the override codes."
My heart stopped. The vault wasn't just heavily armored; it was digitally locked. And Marcus was the architect of my corporate security.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the estate’s intercom system. It wasn't Thorne. It was Cassandra.
"Marcus!" her voice rang out, crystal clear and utterly terrifying. "Step away from him."
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Marcus laughed, looking up at the ceiling speaker. "Or what, little mother? You're locked in a box."
"I was locked in a box," Cassandra’s voice corrected him, ice-cold and laced with pure venom. "But Damon didn't just build a panic room. He built a trap."
