Chapter 3 - THE SIEGE OF ST. CLAIR ESTATE
"Gabriel, execute Contingency Red," Orson ordered without a single trace of panic in his voice. "Shut down the estate's main power grid. Switch all internal communications to quantum-encrypted radios."
"What about the guests downstairs?" Gabriel asked, pulling his sidearm from its holster and checking the chamber. "The entire St. Clair family is still in the dining hall."
"Lock them in the lower wine cellars," Orson commanded coldly. "If any of Tamsin’s relatives move toward the security hub, neutralize them."
"Orson, please!" Tamsin shrieked as Gabriel’s men grabbed her by the arms. "You can't fight the federal task force! My uncle is leading the raid! If you surrender now, they might let you keep the legitimate assets!"
Orson ignored her. He walked back to his desk, picked up Mara, and pulled a heavy wool coat around her shoulders.
"Daddy?" Mara asked softly, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. "Are the bad men coming?"
"Nobody is touching you, Mara," Orson murmured, kissing the top of her head. "Not tonight. Not ever."
He pulled a hidden lever built into the mahogany bookcase behind his desk. With a low mechanical hum, the heavy wood paneling swung inward, revealing a private, steel-reinforced elevator shaft that led straight down into the estate’s underground subterranean bunker.
"Gabriel, take Mara and the primary server drive down to Vault Four," Orson instructed. "I'm going to meet Tamsin’s uncle at the front gate."
"You're going out there alone?" Gabriel asked in disbelief.
"I'm not going out there to negotiate," Orson replied, pulling a pair of dark leather gloves onto his hands. "I'm going out there to show Richard St. Clair what happens when he uses my child as a weapon."
The estate suddenly plunged into total darkness as the main power was cut. Emergency red floodlights flickered on along the baseboards, casting long, crimson shadows across the high-arched corridors.
Outside, heavy armored vehicles breached the wrought-iron front gates of the estate, their searchlights cutting through the thick torrential rain. Federal agents in full tactical gear fanned out across the manicured lawns, their weapons leveled at the main entrance.
Leading the assault force was Agent Richard St. Clair—Tamsin’s uncle, and the head of the regional organized crime task force.
Richard stood behind the door of his armored command vehicle, holding a bullhorn to his mouth.
"Orson Vance! This is the Federal Task Force! Step out with your hands visible! We have a signed warrant for your arrest and the immediate protective custody of Mara Vance!"
The heavy oak front doors of the mansion swung open slowly.
A single figure stepped out into the pouring rain, illuminated only by the glaring white searchlights of twenty tactical vehicles.
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Orson Vance stood alone on the broad marble steps, holding a dark umbrella in one hand and his signature silver cigar case in the other.
"Richard," Orson’s voice carried across the courtyard, clear and undisturbed by the howling wind. "You brought twenty men to my house. You should have brought an army."
