Chapter 7 - The Red Dot
"Down!" I screamed, slamming my entire body weight into Vincent.
We crashed to the hardwood floor together just as the massive panoramic window exploded into a million shimmering shards of tempered glass.
*CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.*
High-powered sniper rounds chewed through the wall behind where Vincent had been standing, pulverizing the drywall into chalky white dust.
Vincent rolled instinctively, covering my body with his own. He was a wall of muscle and bone, shielding my head from the raining glass. He reached into his waistband, drew a custom black matte pistol, and pulled me toward the low concrete dividing wall separating the bedroom from the corridor.
"Stay flat!" he ordered, his voice ringing with absolute combat authority.
The glass had barely finished shattering when the front doors of the penthouse were blown off their hinges with a concussive blast.
*FLASH-BANG.*
The deafening pop echoed through the apartment, accompanied by blinding white light. Men in tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns, flooded through the smoke.
"Clear the master bedroom! Target is armed, Don is priority alpha! Terminate the girl!" a voice barked with a thick Eastern European accent.
They weren't here to negotiate. The moment Dominic’s transmitter had gone dead, the Volkovs knew their puppet string had snapped. They had sent a hit squad to finish the job before Vincent could mobilize the Moretti army.
"Clara," Vincent whispered, his eyes locked on mine amid the swirling smoke. "Can you crawl to the kitchen pantry?"
"What are you going to do?" I whispered back, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.
"I'm going to remind them why they had to drug me in the first place."
He shoved a spare magazine into my hand, squeezed my shoulder, and then moved.
Vincent rose from behind the concrete barrier like a demon summoned from the dark. He fired three rapid shots through the drywall. Screams erupted in the corridor as two men dropped, rounds punching clean through their body armor.
A volley of automatic fire erupted, tearing the bedroom furniture to shreds. Vincent ducked, slid across the floor, grabbed a fallen tactical shotgun from the first downed mercenary, and racked the slide with a brutal metallic clatter.
*BOOM.*
The roar of the 12-gauge shook the entire penthouse floor. A mercenary was thrown backward into the foyer, his chest cavity caved in.
I scrambled on my hands and knees across the floor, dodging sharp glass and spent brass casings, clawing my way toward the kitchen. Behind me, Vincent fought like a man possessed. He didn't just shoot; he moved with fluid, lethal choreography—snapping limbs, utilizing blind corners, turning the mercenaries' own weapons against them.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps sprinted toward me.
I spun around in the kitchen corridor, pressing my back against the island. A massive mercenary stepped through the archway, his rifle leveled directly at my forehead. His eyes were cold, devoid of mercy.
"Goodbye, little doll," he sneered, pulling the trigger.
*CLICK.*
The chamber was empty. He had burned through his magazine during the breach.
Without thinking, driven purely by raw survival instinct, I grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet resting on the stove and swung it with everything I had.
*CLANG.*
The heavy iron caught him square in the temple. The mercenary stumbled backward, stunned, blood spurting from his brow.
Before he could recover, an arm wrapped around his neck from behind. Vincent’s blade slipped under the man's chin, cutting deep and clean. The mercenary collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.
Vincent stood over him, blood spattered across his face and shirt, breathing heavily. He looked down at me, holding the cast-iron skillet like a weapon of war.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
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"Remind me never to make you angry at breakfast," he said.
***
