Chapter 7 - The Lion on His Feet
The crack of bone echoed through the high-ceilinged gallery.
Maxwell’s left hand caught the barrel of the submachine gun, redirecting it toward the ceiling just as three rounds tore through the plaster with muffled thuds. With his right fist, he drove a brutal, short-range hammer blow into the gunman’s throat.
The man gagged, his eyes rolling back as his trachea collapsed.
Before the guard could fall, Maxwell grabbed him by the collar, spun him around with terrifying strength, and hurled his two-hundred-pound body over the mahogany balustrade.
The gunman crashed onto the marble floor below with a sickening crunch, landing directly at Mikhail’s feet.
Silence fell over the foyer. Absolute, suffocating silence.
Below, Julian’s jaw dropped so low it looked dislocated. “H-he’s... he’s standing...”
Dr. Bradley, who had just stepped out of the study with a medical bag, froze in mid-stride. The color drained from his face until he looked like a ghost. “That’s... that’s clinically impossible...”
Maxwell stood tall at the edge of the mezzanine, leaning his hands casually on the polished railing. His tall, imposing frame cast a long, menacing shadow under the gallery sconces. The cashmere coat hung from his broad shoulders, framing the ruthless warlord Providence had feared for two decades.
“You’ve been slipping poison into my veins for fourteen months, Arthur,” Maxwell called down to the trembling physician, his voice smooth and terrifyingly quiet. “You should have used cyanide. Because now that I’m standing, none of you are leaving this foyer alive.”
Mikhail recovered from his shock first. “Kill him! Kill him now!”
The second gunman raised his automatic rifle toward the mezzanine.
Maxwell drew the .45 from his waistband. Two deafening shots echoed through the house. The heavy rounds struck the shooter in the center of his chest, hurling him backward through the glass display cases lining the foyer wall.
“Down!” Maxwell roared, grabbing Martha by the waist and pulling her behind the marble column as Mikhail’s remaining man opened fire.
Bullets tore into the balustrade, splinters of oak raining down around them. Martha huddled against Maxwell’s chest, her hands clutching his shirt, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
“Are you hurt?” Maxwell demanded, his eyes searching her face with an intensity that went far beyond tactical concern.
“I’m fine! But there’s two more down there!”
“Not for long,” Maxwell muttered.
He leaned out from behind the pillar, fired once with surgical precision, taking out the third gunman as he attempted to flank the staircase.
Below, Mikhail realized the tide had turned violently. He grabbed Julian by the collar of his suit and dragged him toward the heavy front doors.
“Mikhail! Let me go! He’s going to kill us!” Julian screamed.
“Shut up, you idiot! We take Pier 9 by force!” Mikhail barked, shoving Julian through the shattered front entrance into the rainy night.
Dr. Bradley turned to run toward the back terrace, but Maxwell was already moving down the grand staircase—two steps at a time, moving with the fluid, lethal grace of an apex predator unleashed after a long winter.
Martha followed him down, her eyes wide as she watched the man who had been bedridden four days ago sprint across the marble floor.
Bradley reached the terrace doors just as Maxwell’s hand clamped down onto the back of his neck, slamming the physician face-first into the reinforced glass.
“Please! Maxwell, please!” Bradley wailed, blood running from his broken nose. “Julian paid me! Two million dollars! He said he’d kill my family if I didn't keep you docile!”
Maxwell leaned in, his lips inches from the doctor’s ear. “You broke your Hippocratic oath, Arthur. But more importantly, you made a fool out of me in my own bed.”
With a single, effortless twist, Maxwell dislocated the doctor’s shoulder. Bradley collapsed onto the floor, screaming in agony.
Maxwell turned toward the front door, the cold Atlantic rain blowing in through the shattered frame, soaking his dark hair.
“Julian is heading for the docks,” Maxwell said, reloading his weapon with practiced efficiency. “He’s going to give the Russians access to the master terminal before dawn.”
Martha ran up to him, catching his arm. “You can’t go alone! Your muscles are running on adrenaline! In an hour, the fatigue toxins will lock your legs up!”
Maxwell looked down at her hand on his arm, then met her gaze. His eyes were fierce, burning with a fire she had never seen in any human being before.
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“Then you’re coming with me, Nurse Kovak,” he said, a fierce, triumphant grin breaking across his rugged face. “Keep me on my feet until I finish this.”
***
