Chapter 6 - The Shadows at the Gate
Gabriel was moving before the radio finished crackling. The vulnerability vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, tactical efficiency of a wartime commander. He reached behind his back, pulled a sleek, matte-black automatic pistol from his waistband, and racked the slide with a clean, metallic clack.
"Stay here," he ordered Chloe, pointing the muzzle toward the floor. "Lock the internal deadbolt. If anyone turns that handle who isn't me or Sal, you take the bathroom window down to the trellis."
"Wait—" Chloe started.
"Lock the damn door!" Gabriel snarled, already sprinting into the hall.
Chloe slammed the heavy oak door and turned the brass deadbolt. Her hands were shaking so hard she had to use both thumbs to twist the mechanism into place.
Beatrice was on her feet, standing beside the window, looking down into the courtyard. The floodlights that had bathed the manicured hedges in blinding white light flickered once, twice, and died completely, plunging the estate into pitch blackness save for the violent flashes of lightning.
They cut the main line, Beatrice signed, her face illuminated by a jagged streak of blue electricity in the sky. The backup generators should kick in.
How do you know? Chloe asked, moving to her side.
Because Carmine had enemies too, Beatrice replied grimly. This is how it begins.
A low rumble shook the floorboards—not thunder, but the heavy thud of an explosion down near the estate’s gatehouse. Seconds later, the sharp chatter of automatic gunfire echoed up from the grounds, followed by the deep, booming retort of Sal’s shotgun.
Chloe’s heart was hammering in her throat like a trapped bird. "We have to get out of here."
No, Beatrice signed firmly, catching Chloe’s hands. The house is reinforced steel. If we run into the grounds, we are targets. Gabriel knows this house. He will flush them.
Suddenly, the lights flickered back on—not the bright floodlights, but the dim, amber emergency sconces along the baseboards. The generator had kicked in.
Through the adjoining door to Chloe’s guest room, the sound of splintering wood exploded through the suite.
The balcony doors.
Chloe froze. Someone had climbed the outer stone terrace and blown the reinforced glass of her bedroom.
Heavy, tactical boots crunched over broken glass, moving fast toward the connecting door.
Chloe grabbed Beatrice’s wrist, shoving the older woman behind her toward the bathroom. "Get inside! Lock it!"
Beatrice shook her head violently, refusing to move, her hands reaching for a heavy bronze lamp on the desk.
The connecting door flew open with enough force to splinter the frame.
A man stepped through. He wore dark gray tactical gear, a ballistic vest with no insignia, and a balaclava pulled up over his nose. In his hands was a suppressed submachine gun, the muzzle smoking faintly.
He didn't look like a mob enforcer; he moved with the brutal, economical posture of a private military contractor.
His eyes locked on Beatrice. He raised the weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Hey!" Chloe screamed.
She hurled the heavy crystal scotch glass Gabriel had left on the dresser with all the strength in her right arm.
The glass spun through the air, catching the gunman directly across the bridge of his nose. He grunted, his aim jerking upward as the weapon coughed three muffled rounds that stitched a row of holes through the plaster ceiling.
The mercenary recovered in half a second, stepping forward and swinging the heavy stock of the submachine gun toward Chloe’s head.
Chloe ducked, the steel grazing her temple, sending a blinding shock of white light through her vision. She crashed into the floor, her ears ringing, tasting copper in her mouth.
The gunman stepped over her, leveling the barrel at Beatrice, who stood paralyzed against the vanity.
A deafening roar split the bedroom.
A heavy slug punched through the side of the gunman’s neck, spraying crimson across the floral wallpaper.
Gabriel stood in the doorway, his pistol held in a two-handed combat grip, his face blackened with soot, his white shirt torn to ribbons. He fired twice more into the man’s chest, driving the mercenary backward over the shattered remnants of the coffee table.
The man collapsed in a heap of nylon and blood, motionless.
Gabriel didn't lower his weapon. He scanned the broken balcony doors, breathing heavily, then stepped into the room, kicking the fallen submachine gun away from the corpse.
He looked at Chloe, who was pushing herself up from the floor, blood trickling from her hairline down her cheek.
Then he looked at Beatrice, who was staring at the dead man with wide, unblinking eyes.
Gabriel stepped forward, dropping his gun onto the desk, and did something Chloe had never seen him do.
He reached out, his soot-stained hands trembling violently, and lifted his fingers into the air.
He didn't know the words. He didn't know the grammar. But with clumsy, agonizing slowness, Gabriel shaped three shaky letters against his chest:
May you like
M - A - M
He couldn't even finish the spelling. His throat hitched, a strangled sob tearing out of his chest, and for the first time in twenty years, Gabriel Costello dropped to his knees in front of his mother and buried his face in her lap.
